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A  Brave  Lady. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN,"  "A  LIFE  FOR  A  LIFE,"  "OLIVE," 
"THE  OGILVIES,"  "A  NOBLE  LIFE,"  &c. 

iDitl)  3Utistration0. 


'  Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 
Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon."— BURNS. 


"  *• 


N  EW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1870. 


By  the  Author  of  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman." 


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A  BKAYE   LADY. 


THE  PROLOGUE. 

In  most,  nay,  I  think  in  all  lives,  is  some 
epoch  which,  looking  back  upon,  we  can  per- 
ceive has  been  the  turning-point  of  our  exist- 
ence—  a  moment  when  the  imagination  first 
wakes  up,  the  feelings  deepen,  and  vague,  gen- 
eral impressions  settle  into  principles  and  con- 
victions ;  when,  in  short,  our  bias  for  good  or 
ill  is  permanently  given.  We  may  not  recog- 
nize this  at  the  time,  but  we  do  afterward,  say- 
ing to  ourselves,  either  with  thankfulness  or  re- 
gret, "But  for  such  and  such  a  thing,  or  such 
and  such  a  person,  I  should  not  have  been  what 
lam." 

This  crisis  befell  me,  Winifred  Weston,  when 
I  was  just  entering  my  sixteenth  year.  It  was 
not  "  falling  in  love,"  as  in  most  cases  it  is — and 
rightly,  for  love  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  strongest 
thing  on  earth  ;  but  it  was  equivalent  to  it,  and 
upon  me  and  the  moulding  of  my  character  it 
had  precisely  the  same  effect.  Nay,  in  a  sense 
I  did  really  fall  in  love,  but  it  was  a  very  harm- 
less phase  of  the  passion ;  for  I  was  a  common- 
place damsel  of  sixteen,  and  the  object  of  my 
intense  admiration — nay,  my  adoring  affection 
— was  an  old  lady  of  seventy. 

A  young  girl  in  love  with  an  old  woman! 
What  a  ridiculous  form  of  the  emotion,  or  sen- 
timent !  Not  so  ridiculous,  my  good  friends, 
as  at  first  appears ;  and  by  no  means  so  uncom- 
mon as  you  suppose.  I  have  known  several 
cases  of  it  besides  my  own :  cases  in  which  a 
great  difference  in  years  and  character  drew 
out,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  that  ideal  worship 
and  passionate  devotedness  which  is  at  the  root 
of  all  true  love,  first  love  especially.  Laugh  as 
you  will,  there  is  always  a  spice  of  nobleness  in 
the  boy  who  falls  in  love  with  his  "grandmo- 
ther ;"  and  I  have  often  thought  that  one  of 
the  extenuating  circumstances  in  the  life  of 
that  selfish,  pleasure-loving,  modern  heathen, 
Goethe,  was  the  fact  that  in  his  old  age  he  was 
so  adored  by  a  "  child." 

Nor  does  the  character  of  the  feeling  alter 
when  it  is  only  a  woman's  toward  a  woman.  I 
have  loved  a  man,  thank  God,  having  found  a 
man  worth  loving ;  but  he  well  knows  that  for 
a  long  time  he  ranked  second  in  my  affections 
to  a  woman — to  this  woman,  for  whom  my  at- 
tachment had  all  the  intensity  of  love  itself. 

She  was,  as  I  have  said,  quite  old,  even  at 
the  time  when  I  first  beheld  her,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  at  church.     Our  pews  were  along- 


side of  one  another,  for  I  sat  in  the  rector's, 
and  she  in  the  one  beyond.  I  was  the  new 
curate's  daughter,  and  she  was  "the  lady  of 
the  hall" — Brierley  Hall,  the  oldest  and  finest 
place  in  the  neighborhood.  She  entered  alone. 
Many  of  the  fine  families  of  the  parish  always 
had  a  footman  to  carry  their  prayer-books,  but 
she  carried  her  own  ;  walked  alone,  stately  and 
slow,  up  the  aisle,  and  took  her  seat  in  a  corner 
of  the  large  musty  pew,  the  cushions  and  linings 
of  which,  once  a  rich  crimson  cloth,  had  faded 
with  the  sunshine  of  indefinite  summers.  They 
contrasted  strongly  with  the  black  of  her  gar- 
ments— ^black,  but  not  sombre  ;  her  gown  being 
of  rich  glittering  silk,  though  she  still  wore  a 
sort  of  widow's  cap  over  her  smooth,  soft,  white 
hair. 

I  knew  who  she  was.  Though  my  father 
and  I  had  only  been  a  week  at  Brierley,  she 
was  of  sufficient  importance  there  for  us  to  have 
already  heard  about  her — at  least  as  much  as 
the  village  generally  knew.  I  had  been  told  I 
should  be  sure  to  see  her  in  church,  the  only 
place  where  she  ever  was  seen  in  public ;  and 
she  had  been  described  to  me  so  minutely  that 
my  excited  curiosity  could  not  fail  to  recognize 
her  at  once. 

Even  had  it  been  otherwise,  I  think  the  re- 
sult would  have  been  all  the  same.  It  was 
to  be,  and  it  was ;  and  I  could  not  help  it.  I, 
the  poor  curate's  daughter,  motherless,  roman- 
tic, solitary,  brought  up  in  the  strictest  seclu- 
sion, fell  in  love,  desperately  and  determinedly, 
with  this  beautiful  old  lady — Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville. 

It  was  such  a  remarkable  name  too,  and  so 
exactly  suited  to  her  appearance.  Let  me  de- 
scribe her  if  I  can. 

She  had  "high"  features,  as  they  are  called 
— that  is,  her  nose  was  aquiline,  and  the  out- 
line of  her  cheek  and  chin  sharply  and  clearly 
cut;  likewise  her  mouth,  which,  though  deli- 
cate, had  much  decision  in  it.  It  was  a  sad 
and  firm  rather  than  a  sweet  mouth ;  or  per-* 
haps  it  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  meant  to  be 
sweet,  but  the  experience  of  life  had  hardened 
it.  Nevertheless,  the  old  softness  could  and 
did  at  times  return;  I  saw  it  afterward,  not 
then.  Sadness  also  was  the  characteristic  of 
her  eyes — sadness,  or  at  any  rate  pensiveness. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  the  sea  after  a  storm, 
when  the  waves  have  calmed  down,  and  the 
surface  has  grown  smooth,  or  even  broken  out 
again  into  little  necessary  ripples:    but  you 


A   #-*  C^  ^^ 


8 


^\'l\A  BRATli  tADY. 


know  all  the  while  there  must  be,  somewhere 
or  other,  many  a  broken  spar  floating  about ; 
many  a  castaway  treasure  beaten  against  the 
beach ;  many  a  dead  carcass  of  ancient  grief 
rising  up  from  the  depths  below.  Such  did  rise 
— and  I  fancied  I  could  see  them — in  the  dark 
eyes  of  this  my  beautiful  lady — the  most  beau- 
tiful, I  still  think,  that  I  ever  beheld,  though 
she  was  a  septuagenarian. 

Even  now,  as  I  vainly  try  to  describe  her,  I 
feel  my  old  infatuation  return — the  delight  with 
which  I  watched  every  curve  of  her  features — 
pale,  colorless  features — as  un-English  and  pe- 
culiar as  her  eyes ;  and  admired  every  fold  in 
her  dress — quite  unlike  any  lady's  dress  I  had 
ever  seen.  Her  toilet  was  complete  in  all  its 
details,  as  befitted  both  herself  and  her  station. 
She  was  chauss^e  et  ganUe  (the  French  best  ex- 
presses what  I  mean ;  we  English  merely  put  on 
gloves  and  shoes)  to  perfection ;  and  she  had 
little  hands  and  little  feet — remarkably  so  for 
such  a  tall  woman.  She  lost  no  inch  of  her 
height,  and  she  carried  her  head  like  one  who 
has  never  lowered  it  in  shame  or  sycophancy 
before  mortal  man.  "  Aristocratic"  undoubt- 
edly would  have  been  the  adjective  applied  to 
her;  but  used  in  its  right  sense,  as  belonging  to 
"the  best"  of  the  earth.  There  was  nothing 
haughty  about  her,  or  repellent,  or  scornful — if 
these  qualities  are  supposed  to  constitute  aris- 
tocracy. 

Her  eyes  and  complexion,  as  I  have  said, 
were  very  un-English,  and  when  she  began  to 
say  the  responses,  it  was  with  a  slight,  a  very 
slight  accent — French,  I  thought ;  but  in  no- 
thing else  was  she  foreign.  Her  dress  was  the 
ordinary  dress  of  an  English  .widow,  from  whose 
weeds  Time  has  melted  away  the  obnoxious 
pomposity  of  crape,  and  allowed  a  faint  mix- 
ture of  white  and  gray  with  the  black.  But  it 
was  black  still — no  bugles — no  trimmings — no 
ornamental  fripperies,  which  alw4ys  seem  such 
a  mockery  of  mourning.  Her  costume  was  per- 
fectly plain,  perfectly  simple,  yet  exceedingly 
rich ;  as  was  justifiable  in  a  lady  whose  wealth 
was,  people  said,  very  great,  and  who  had  not 
a  creature  to  inherit  it  after  her. 

For  Lady  de  Borfgainville  was  that  sad  sight, 
a  widowed  wife — a  mother  left  childless.  In 
her  solitary  old  age  she  kept  her  forlorn  state 
in-  that  huge  house,  which,  many  years  ago, 
her  husband,  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville,  had 
bought,  rebuilt,  lived  in  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  died.  Before  then,  by  a  succession  of  fatal- 
ities, her  six  children  had  died  also.  Thence- 
/orward  she,  too,  was  as  good  as  dead,  socially 
speaking,  to  the  little  world  of  Brierley.  She 
did  not  quit  the  Hall.  She  kept  it  up  extern- 
•ally  much  as  before — that  is,  none  of  the 
rooms  were  closed,  and  there  was  a  sufficient 
establishment  of  servants.  But  she  lived  in  it 
quite  alone — never  visited  any  where,  nor  in- 
vited any  body  to  visit  her.  So  she  passed  her 
days,  and  had  passed  them — our  gossiping 
landlady  told  me — for  twenty  years  and  more, 
the  wonder  and  curiosity  of  the  neighborhood — 


this  poor,  lonely,  wealthy  woman — the  envied, 
pitied,  much  revered,  much  criticised  Lady  de 
Bougainville. 

Those  who  revered  her  were  the  poor,  to 
whom  she  was  unlimitedly  charitable :  those 
who  criticised  her  were  the  rich,  the  county 
families  with  whom  she  had  long  ceased  to  as- 
sociate, and  the  new-comers  whom  she  never 
sought  to  visit  at  all.  These  were  naturally 
indignant  that  Brierley  Hall  should  be  shut  up 
from  them — that  no  dinner-parties  should  be 
given  in  the  fine  old  dining-room  where 
Charles  II.  was  said  to  have  taken  a  royal  re- 
fection after  hunting  in  the  chase  which  sur- 
rounded the  property.  The  younger  genera- 
tion likewise  felt  aggrieved  that  on  such  a  beau- 
tiful lawn  there  should  be  no  archery  parties 
(croquet  then  was  not),  and  no  hope  whatever 
of  a  ball  in  the  tapestry-chamber,  concerning 
which  there  were  rumors  without  end  ;  for  none 
of  the  present  generation  had  ever  seen  it. 

Once  things  had  been  very  different.  While 
Sir  Edward  was  rebuilding  the  Hall  he  inhabit- 
ed a  house  near,  and  lived  in  a  style  suitable  to 
his  fortune,  while  his  wife  and  family  mingled 
in  all  the  best  society  of  the  neighborhood. 
They  were  exceedingly  popular,  being  a  large 
merry  family — handsome  to  look  at,  full  of  life 
and  strength.  Their  father  was  less  liked,  being 
"  rather  queer,"  people  said,  somewhat  unsocial, 
and  always  fancying  himself  a  great  invalid. 
But  their  mother  shared  in  all  their  youthful 
enjoyments,  and  herself  shone  upon  society 
like  a  star. — Vanished  top,  almost  as  suddenly ; 
for  after  a  certain  grand  ball — a  house-warming 
which  Sir  Edward  gave — and  the  splendors  of 
which  the  elder  generation  in  the  village  re- 
membered still,  the  master  of  Brierley  Hall  fell 
really  ill  of  some  mysterious  ailment.  "  Some- 
thing amiss  here,  folk  said,"  observed  my  in- 
formant, tapping  her  forehead  ;  and  after  lin- 
gering, unseen  by  any  body,  for  many  months, 
died,  and  was  buried  in  Brierley  church-yard. 
His  monument,  in  plain  white  marble,  without 
any  of  the  fulsomeness  common  to  epitaphs, 
was  over  his  widow's  head  every  Sunday  as 
she  sat  in  the  Hall  pew. 

There,  too,  was  a  second  tablet,  equally 
simple  in  form  and  inscription,  recording  the 
names,  ages,  and  dates  of  death  of  her  six 
children.  They  had  every  one  perished,  some 
abroad,  some  at  home,  within  a  compai-atively 
short  space  of  time — dying  off,  as  some  fami- 
lies do  die  off,  when  all  the  probabilities  seem 
in  favor  of  their  continuing  to  remote  genera- 
tions a  prosperous,  healthy,  and  honorable  race. 
When  I  read  the  list  of  names  on  the  white 
tablet,  and  glanced  thence  at  the  mother's  face, 
I  no  longer  wondered  at  its  sad  expression,  or 
at  those  "  peculiarities" — people  called  them — 
which  had  made  her  the  talk  of  the  village, 
until  it  grew  weary  of  talking,  and  let  her  alone. 

Af  first,  in  the  early  years  of  her  desolation, 
her  neighbors  had  made  many  attempts,  some 
from  curiosity,  some  from  pure  kindness,  to 
break  through  her  determined  seclusion;  but 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


9 


they  failed.  She  was  neither  uncourteous  nor 
ungrateful,  but  there  was  about  her  a  silent  re- 
pelling of  all  sympathy,  which  frightened  the 
curious  and  wore  out  the  patience  of  even  the 
kindest-hearted  of  these  intruders.  She  let 
them  see,  plainly  enough,  that  their  visits  were 
an  intrusion,  and  that  it  was  her  intention  to 
reappear  in  society  no  more. 

She  never  did.  Except  at  church  on  Sun- 
days, or  driving  out  along  the  most  unfrequent- 
ed roads,  in  her  handsome  old-fashioned  car- 
riage, no  one  saw  her  beyond  the  limits  of  her 
own  grounds.  She  was  as  little  known  as  the 
Dalai  Lama,  and  regarded  with  almost  equal 
awe.  Her  smallest  deeds  were  noticed,  hei' 
lightest  saying  recorded,  and  her  very  name 
uttered  respectfully,  as  if  she  were  a  different 
person  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

She  was.  As  I  sat  gazing  at  her  during  the 
whole  of  church-time,  I  felt  that  I  never  had 
seen,  never  should  see,  any  body  like  Lady  de 
Bougainville. 

It  so  happened  that  hitherto  I  had  known 
very  few  women — that  is,  gentlewomen — partly 
because  in  the  far-away  parish  where  Ave  had 
lived  till  we  came  here,  there  were  only  farm- 
houses, except  the  great  house,  which  my  father 
never  let  me  enter.  A  certain  sad  prejudice 
he  had — which  I  will  no  further  allude  to  ex- 
cept to  say  that,  though  I  was  motherless,  my 
"mother  was  not  dead — made  him  altogether 
avoid  female  society.  He  had  brought  me  up 
entirely  himself,  and  more  like  a  boy  than  a 
girl :  in  my  heart  I  wished  I  was  a  boy,  and 
rather  despised  my  own  sex,  until  I  saw  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

She,  with  her  noble  beauty,  not  weak,  but 
strong;  with  her  unmistakable  motherly  air, 
not  the  feeble  fondness  which  is  little  better 
than  an  animal  instinct,  but  that  large  protect- 
ing tenderness  which  makes  one  ready  to  de- 
fend as  well  as  cherish  ahe's  offspring :  she 
seemed  to  me  a  real  woman — a  real  mother. 
And  all  her  children  were  dead ! 

I  did  not  presume  to  pity  her,  but  my  heart 
was  drawn  toward  her  by  something  deeper 
than  the  fascination  of  the  eye.  The  fancy  of 
sixteen  can  take  a  pretty  long  Queen  Mab's 
gallop  in  two  hours :  by  the  time  service  was 
over  I  seemed  to  have  been  "  in  love"  with  her 
for  years. 

She  walked  down  the  aisle  a  little  before 
rather  than  after  t'le  rest  of  the  congregation, 
quitting  the  church  among  not  the  genteel  but 
the  poor  people,  who  courtesied  to  her  and  were 
acknowledged  by  her  as  she  passed,  but  she 
made  and  received  no  other  recognition.  Alone 
as  she  came  she  departed,  and  alone  she  as- 
cended her  carriage — one  of  those  chariots  sway- 
ing about  on  springs,  such  as  were  in  fashion 
thirty  years  ago,  with  hammer-cloth  in  front  and 
.  dickey  behind.  Her  footman  handed  her  in, 
and  shut  the  door  upon  her  with  a  sharp  click, 
and  an  air  as  solemnly  indifferent  as  that  of  the 
imdertaker  who  closes  a  coffin-lid  upon  some 
highly  respectable  corpse  whose  friends  have 


quitted  the  house  —  as  I  hear  in  fashionable 
houses  they  always  do ;  and  her  coachman  then 
drove  her  off,  the  sole  occupant  of  this  hand- 
some carriage,  as  slowly  as  if  he  were  driving  a 
hearse. 

After  all  there  was  something  pathetically 
funereal  in  this  state,  and  I  should  have  hated 
it,  and  turned  away  from  it,  had  I  not  been 
so  fascinated  by  Lady  de  Bougainville  herself. 
She  burst  upon  my  dull  life — craving  for  any- 
thing new — as  an  interest  so  vivid  that  it  was 
an  actual  revelation.  I  went  home,  to  think 
about  her  all  day,  to  dream  of  her  at  night ;  I 
drew  her  profile  —  how  perfect  it  was,  even 
though  it  was  an  old  woman's  face ! — among 
the  sums  on  my  slate,  and  along  the  margins 
of  my  Latin  exercise-book.  I  kept  my  mind 
always  on  the  qui  vive,  and  my  ears  painfully 
open,  to  catch  any  floating  information  concern- 
ing her;  but  I  was  as  shy  of  putting  direct 
questions  about  her  as  if  I  had  been  a  young 
man  and  she  my  first  love.  Do  not  laugh  at 
me,  you  who  read  this  ;  it  is  such  a  good  thing 
to  be  '*  in  love"  with  any  body.  When  we  grow 
older  we  love  in  a  quieter  and  more  rational 
way;  but  even  then  we  regard  tenderly  our 
early  idolatries. 

It  seemed  a  long  week  till  the  next  Sunday, 
and  then  I  saw  her  again.  Henceforward,  from 
Sunday  to  Sunday,  I  lived  in  a  suppressed  sus- 
pense and  longing — sure  to  be  satisfied  theti ; 
for,  fair  weather  or  foul,  Lady  de  Bougainville 
was  always  in  her  place  at  church.  Only  upon 
Sundays  was  my  fancy  "with  gazing  fed  ;"  but 
it  fattened  so  rapidly  upon  that  viaigre  diet  that 
I  went  through  all  the  preliminary  stages  of  a 
real  love-fever.  Most  girls  haVe  it,  or  some- 
thing like  it,  and  it  rather  does  good  than  harm, 
especially  if  the  object  is,  as  in  my  case,  only  a 
woman.  Poor  little  lamb  that  she  was — silly 
Winny  Weston  !  I  look  back  at  her  now  as  if 
she  were  some  other  person,  and  not  myself; 
seeing  all  her  faults,  and  all  her  good  points, 
too ;  and  I  beg  it  to  be  distinctly  understood 
that  I  am  not  the  least  ashamed  of  her,  or  of 
her  "first  love,"  either. 

That  my  idol  should  ever  cast  a  thought  to- 
ward me  was  an  idea  that  never  entered  even 
my  vivid  imagination.  She  cast  a  glance  occa- 
sionally— that  is,  she  looked  over  my  head  to 
the  opposite  wall,  but  I  never  supposed  she  saw 
me.  However,  this  was  of  no  consequence  so 
long  as  I  could  see  her,  and  speculate  upon  her, 
weaving  long  histories  of  which  she  was  the  her- 
oine ;  histories  over  which  I  afterward  smiled 
to  think  how  far  they  were  from  the  truth. 
Then,  having  exhausted  the  past,  I  turned  to 
the  future,  and  amused  myself  with  conjuring 
up  endless  probabilities  and  fortuitous  circum- 
stances which  might  cause  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville and  myself  to  meet,  or  enable  me  to  do 
some  heroic  action  for  her,  with  or  without  her 
knowledge — it  did  not  matter  much.  Some- 
times I  pictured  her  horses  starting  off,  and 
myself,  little  Winny  Weston,  catching  hold  of 
their  bridles  and  preventing  a  serious  accident ;, 


10 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


^i.^ 


or  some  night  there  might  arise  a  sudden  gleam 
of  fire  among  the  trees  whence  peeped  the  chim- 
neys of  Brierley  Hall,  which  I  often  watched  from 
ray  bedroom  window  in  the  moonlight ;  and  I  pic- 
tured myself  giving  the  alarm,  and  rushing  to  the 
spot  just  in  time  to  save  the  house  and  rescue  its 
aged  mistress.  Perhaps,  after  some  such  epi- 
sode, she  would  just  notice  my  existence,  or,  if 
I  did  any  thing  very  grand,  would  hold  out  her 
hand  and  say — in  the  same  clear  voice  which 
every  Sunday  besought  mercy  upon  "  us  miser- 
able sinners,  "as  if  she  could  be  a  miserable  sin- 
ner!— "  Thank  you,  Winifred  Weston."  Sup- 
pose I  actually  saved  her  life — who  knows  ?  she 
might  do  even  more — open  her  arms  to  my  mo- 
therless but  yearning  heart,  and  whisper,  "Win- 
ifred, be  henceforth  my  child.!" 

All  this  was  very  silly  and  very  melodramatic ; 
yet  it  was  better  for  me  than  many  of  the  follies 
that  one's  teens  are  heir  to — better  than  dancing 
and  flirting  into  womanhood,  buoyed  up  by  the 
frothy  admiration  of  raw  young-manhood.  It 
taught  me  to  love,  rather  than  to  crave  for  being 
loved :  and  it  taught  me — if  only  through  my 
imagination — two  other  things  which  I  think 
the  present  generation  rather  loses  sight  of — 
heroism  and  patience. 

That  Lady  de  Bougainville  herself  was  capa- 
ble of  both  I  felt  sure,  from  her  very  face.  The 
better  I  knew  it  the  more  it  fascinated  me.  It 
was  an  ideal  face — nay,  there  was  something  in 
it  absolutely  historical,  like  one  of  those  old  por- 
traits which  you  are  convinced  have  a  story  be- 
longing to  them ;  or  to  which  you  may  affix  any 
story  you  please.  Calm  as  it  was,  it  was  nei- 
ther a  stony  nor  impassive  face.  Often,  when 
something  in  my  father's  sermon  attracted  her 
— he  preached  very  good  and  original  sermons 
sometimes — she  would  brighten  up,  and  fix  upon 
him  her  dark  eyes — keen  and  clear  as  if  they 
were  tw^enty-five  years  old  instead  of  seventy. 
But  ordinarily  she  sat  with  them  cast  down; 
not  in  laziness,  or  pride,  or  scorn,  but  as  if  they 
were  tired — tired  of  looking  out  upon  the  world 
for  so  many  years.  When  lifted  they  had  often 
a  wistful  and  abstracted  expression,  as  if  she 
were  living  in  times  and  places  far  away.  As 
she  said  to  me,  months  after,  when  I  ventured 
to  ask  her  what  she  did  with  herself— that  is, 
when  her  daily  work  was  done — "  My  dear,  I 
dream.     I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  dream." 

What  first  put  it  into  her  mind  to  notice  me 
ave  even  now  not  the  slightest  idea.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  nothing  but  the  impulse  of  her  own 
kind  heart :  when,  missing  me  from  my  seat  at 
church,  she  inquired  about  me,  and  who  I  was : 
finally,  hearing  I  was  ill — of  that  most  unpoet- 
ical  complaint,  the  measles — she  did  as  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  doing  to  almost  every  sick  per- 
son in  the  village,  sent  daily  to  inquire  and  to 
offer  gifts.  Only  these  gifts  came  at  first  rath- 
er from  the  gardens  and  vineries  than  the  kitch- 
en of  Brierley  Hall ;  until,  some  little  bird  hav- 
ing perhaps  whispered  to  her  that  a  poor  curate 
often  feeds  not  quite  so  well  as  a  prosperous 
artisan,  there  appeared  gradually  jellies,  soups. 


and  other  nourishing  aliments.  When  I  learned 
from  whence  they  came,  I  banqueted  upon  them 
as  if  they  were  the  ambrosia  of  the  earth. 

But  they  did  not  cure  me ;  and  I  had  been 
fully  five  weeks  absent  from  church  when  one 
Monday  morning — oh,  that  blessed  Monday! — 
there  came  a  little  note  to  my  father — a  note 
on  delicate-colored  paper,  with  a  small  black 
seal,  in  a  handwriting  diminutive,  upright,  firm 
— more  like  foreign  than  English  caligraphy. 
I  have  it  still : 

"  Lady  de  Bougainville  presents  her  compliments  to 
the  Rev.  Henry  Weston,  and  would  esteem  it  a  pleas- 
ure if  he  would  trust  his  daughter  to  her  for  a  week's 
visit.  Brierley  Hall  was  always  considered  a  healthy 
place,  and  Lady  de  Bougainville  has  seen  many  sad 
instances  of  long  ill-health,  which  a  slight  change  of 
air  at  flrst  might  have  cured.  She  will  take  the  utmost 
care  of  the  child"— [/lerc  "the  child"  tvas  crossed  out, 
and  "Miss  Weston"  iTiserted]—"  if  Mr.  Weston  will  con- 
sent to  part  with  her.  A  carriage  shall  fetch  her  at 
any  hour  to-day  or  to-morrow,  so  as  to  avoid  all  fa- 
tigue." 

Most  wonderful !  The  letter  dropped  from 
my  trembling  hands.  Aladdin,  Fortunatus, 
Cinderella — all  those  lucky  youths  and  maiden, 
befriended  by  fairies  and  good  genii — were  not 
more  intoxicatingly  happy  than  I. 

"Father,  you  will  let  me  go !"  I  cried.  " Not 
to-day,  perhaps"  (for — it  was  a  natural  weak- 
ness— I  suddenly  remembered  the  state  of  my 
wardrobe ;  a  condition  not  surprising  in  a  poor 
curate's  motherless  daughter) ;  "  but  to-mor- 
row ?  You  will  send  back  word  that  I  shall  be 
ready  by — let  me  see — by  noon  to-morrow  ?" 

I  always  had  every  thing  pretty  much  my 
own  way;  so  it  was  soon  arranged  that  I  should 
pay  this — the  first  visit  I  had  ever  paid  from 
home  alone. 

Young  people  who  have  many  friends,  and 
are  always  interchanging  visits,  can  have  no 
idea  of  the  state  of  excitement  I  was  in.  It 
seemed  to  rouse  me  out  of  invalidism  at  once. 
To  go  any  where — to  any  body,  would  have 
been  charming ;  bjit  to  Brierley  Hall !  it  was 
ecstasy !  To  live  under  the  same  roof  as  my 
beautiful  old  lady — to  see  her  every  day  in  or- 
dinary life — to  be  kindly  noticed  by  her — to  be 
able  to  render  her  various  small  services,  such 
as  a  young  person  can  so  easily  pay  to  an  elder 
one :  the  cup  of  my  felicity  was  full.  It  was 
worth  being  ill — twenty  times  over.  I  thought 
— I  think  still,  and,  while  laughing  at  myself, 
it  is  with  tears  in  my  eyes — that  the  measles 
was  a  special  interposition  of  Providence.  Not 
in  any  worldly  point  of  view.  In  spite  of  all 
my  landlady's  respectful  and  mysterious  con- 
gratulations, I  could  see  no  special  advantage 
likely  to  accrue  to  me  from  the  visit ;  but  I  ac- 
cepted it  as  a  present  delight ;  about  which, 
and  my  own  deservings  of  it,  I  did  not  specu- 
late at  all.  In  fact,  I  took  going  to  the  Hall  as 
naturally  as  I  suppose  I  shall  one  day  take  go- 
ing to  heaven ;  and  it  felt  not  unlike  it. 

My  clothes  were  at  first  a  serious  weight  on 
my  mind ;  they  were  so  few,  so  poor,  and — as, 
alas !  I  only  now  seemed  to  discover — so  un- 
tidy. When  I  thought  of  Lady  de  Bougain- 
villa,  her  silks,  velvets,  and  furs,  the  richness 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


11 


of  which  was  almost  forgotten  in  their  exquisite 
neatness  and  appropriateness,  my  heart  failed 
me.  Well,  she  was  rich  and  I  was  poor ;  but 
still  that  need  not  make  such  a  vital  difference. 
Effen  poor  folk  can  contrive  to  keep  their  gar- 
ments clean  and  whole.  I  must  try  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf  from  this  day  forward. 

So  I  mended  and  arranged,  folded  and  pack- 
ed, wishing  faintly  that  I  could  put  some  wo- 
manly orderliness  into  my  too  boyish  ways ;  and 
this  practical  occupation  kept  my  head  steadily 
balanced,  and  leveled  a  little  the  heights  and 
depths  of  excitement,  the  alternations  of  eager 
expectation  and  shyness  almost  amounting  to 
fear,  which  came  upon  me.  Yet  the  whole  of 
the  day  I  was  in  a  fever  of  delight.  I  tried  to 
hide  it,  lest  my  father  should  think  I  was  glad 
to  leave  him,  this  first  time  in  my  life  that  I 
ever  had  left  him.  But  it  was  not  that  at  all ; 
it  was  no  carelessness  to  old  ties,  only  the  dawn- 
ing instinct  for  new  ones — the  same  instinct 
which  prompts  the  young  bird  to  creep  to  the 
edge  of  even  the  warmest  and  safest  nest,  and 
peer  over  into  the  unknown  world  beyond.  It 
may  be  a  cold  world — a  dangerous,  fatal  world, 
wherein,  many  a  day  yet,  we  may  wander  about 
shivering,  and  long  regretfully  for  the  nest  left 
behind.  But  for  all  that  we  can  not  staj^  in  the 
nest :  God  gives  us  wings,  and  when  they  grow 
we  must  use  them;  whatever  it  costs  us,  we 
must  learn  to  fly. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  had  bidden  my  father 
good-by — as  solemn  a  good-by  as  if  I  had  been 
bound  to  the  Antipodes — and  sat  alone  in  the 
Hall  carriage,  my  heart  failed  me  a  little.  Lux- 
ury was  so  new  to  me ;  I  was  half  frightened 
by  it.  Yet  was  I  not  well-born  ?  Had  not  my 
forefathers  driven  about  in  carriages  quite  as 
grand  as  this  one  ?  Besides,  in  my  still  feeble 
health,  the  easy  equipage,  rolling  lazily  and 
smoothly  along,  gave  me  rather  a  pleasurable 
sensation.  After  the  first  minute  or  two  I  be- 
gan to  believe  in  the  reality  of  my  felicity ;  and 
Aladdin  as  he  rubbed  his  lamp,  Cinderella  as 
she  leaned  back  in  her  pumpkin  chariot,  were 
not  more  full  of  happy  hope  than  I. 

As  we  drove  through  the  village,  and  people 
stared  at  the  Hall  equipage  passing  at  an  un- 
wonted hour,  I  first  sat  bolt  upright  in  it,  with 
a  conscious  pleasure  that  every  body  should 
see  me  there ;  then  I  scorned  myself  for  the 
mean  vanity.  It  was  better  to  hide  my  happi- 
ness in  the  deep  of  my  heart,  and  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  carriage  :  so  I  leaned  back,  saying 
to  myself  in  proud  delight,  "Nobody  knows — 
nobody  knows."  For  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
whole  world,  if  they  did  know  it,  would  envy  me, 
thus  going  on  a  visit  to  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

We  reached  the  lodge-gates.  I  had  often 
peeped  through  them  at  the  mysterious  region 
beyond,  where  the  fine  red-brick  mansion  glim- 
mered through  the  green  of  the  long  elm- 
avenue  ;  and  the  trees  which  dotted  the  park 
cast  their  shadows  on  the  smooth  turf — making 
a  picture  which  sometimes  reminded  me  of  the 
garden  of  the  Hesperides. 


Now,  however,  the  gates  flew  open,  and  a 
very  commonplace  gardener's  wife  admitted  us 
into  the  enchanted  ground.  It  was  such — ^it 
always  will  be  such  to  me.  As  the  carriage 
rolled  slowly  between  those  two  lines  of  patri- 
archal elms,  just  dressing  themselves  anew  in 
the  soft  green  of  early  spring,  I  felt  that  the 
modern  villas  starting  up  around  us  so  fatally 
fast,  snug  and  smug,  four-square,  Portland- 
cemented,  with  newly -painted  palisades,  and 
araucarias  and  deodaras  stuck  here  and  there 
in  the  fresh-made  lawn,  were  no  more  to  com- 
pare with  Brierley  Hall  than  were  their  occu- 
pants, fat  and  well-to-do  gentlemen,  highly- 
dressed  and  highly-respectable  ladies,  with  my 
Lady  de  Bougainville. 

Could  that  be  herself  standing  at  the  door? 
No,  of  course  not ;  how  could  I  have  imagined 
such  a  condescension  ? 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  friendly-smiling  and 
pleasant  person — a  lady's  maid,  but  not  the  eld- 
erly Abigail  one  might  have  expected.  Cu- 
riously enough,  the  domestics  at  Brierley  Hall 
were,  except  one,  all  young  servants. 

"  My  lady  says.  Miss,  that  I  am  to  take  you 
straight  to  your  bedroom,  and  see  that  you  lie 
down  and  rest  there  till  dinner-time  —  six 
o'clock.    You  shall  have  a  cup  of  tea  directly." 

I  often  fancy  people  know  not  half  the  mys- 
teries of  personal  influence ;  and  how  curiously 
they  themselves  are  reflected  in  their  servants. 
This  young  woman — who  was  as  civil  as  if  I  had 
been  the  Honorable  Winifred  Weston,  come  on 
a  visit  with  my  own  maid  and  a  heap  of  luggage 
— took  from  me  my  small  portmanteau,  led  the 
way  across  a  wide  hall,  of  which  in  my  bewilder- 
ed nervousness  I  only  saw  a  glimmer  of  painted 
glass,  green  marble  pillars,  and  polished  oaken 
floors,  up  a  beautiful  staircase,  and  into  a  wann, 
fire-lit  bedroom. 

We  all  have  our  ideals,  and  this  will  be  my 
ideal  bedchamber  to  the  end  of  my  days.  It 
was  not  large,  at  least  not  too  large  to  feel  cozy ; 
and  it  was  made  still  smaller  by  a  subdivision : 
an  arch,  supported  on  Corinthian  pillars,  behind 
which  was  the  bed  and  all  the  toilet  apparatus, 
making  a  clear  distinction  between  the  sleeping 
and  the  social  half  of  the  room.  In  the  latter, 
collected  snugly  round  the  hearth,  were  a  sofa, 
a  table,  writing  materials,  books ;  a  little  en- 
campment, on  which  the  fire  blazed  welcomely 
this  chilly,  gray,  spring  day.  Above  it,  insert- 
ed into  the  wainscoted  wall,  was  a  curious  oil- 
painting,  half  length,  life-sized,  of  some  old 
saint.  From  the  unkempt  hair  and  beard,  the 
leathern  girdle,  and  the  robe  of  camel's  hair,  I 
concluded  it  was  John  the  Baptist.  A  strange 
fancy  to  have  him  there,  gazing  with  wan  face, 
and  gleaming,  reproachful  eyes  that  seemed 
ever  crying  "  Repent  ye,"  upon  the  luxuries 
of  the  room. 

It  appeared  luxurious  to  me,  for  I  had  never 
beheld  one  any  thing  equal  to  it.  I  was  half 
amused,  half  annoyed,  to  see  how  many  neces- 
saries of  civilized  life  I  had  hitherto  done  with- 
out ;  toilet  appliances  of  mysterious  kind ;  end- 


12 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


less  drawers,  closets,  and  shelves  in  which  to 
stow  away  my  poor  property ;  mirrors  and  hand- 
glasses, reflecting  every  where  my  humble  per- 
son, gaunt  with  the  awkwardness  of  my  age, 
ill-dressed,  unlovely.  Then  the  bed,  which  was 
of  foreign  make,  with  a  graceful  canopy,  rich 
'damask  hangings,  and  a  counterpane  of  quilted 
silk.     How  could  I  ever  go  to  sleep  in  it  ? 

At  first,  I  own,  my  novel  position  quite  fright- 
ened me.  But  when  I  had  drank  my  tea,  un- 
packed myself — declining  assistance  through 
sheer  shame — and  arranged  my  garments  as 
carefully  and  as  widely  as  I  could  upon  their 
numerous  receptacles,  after  having  taxed  my 
mother-wit  to  the  utmost  in  discovering  the 
uses  of  all  these  things,  so  as  not  to  be  disgraced 
in  the  eyes  of  house-maid  or  lady's-maid,  then 
I  took  heart  of  grace.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Win- 
ny  Weston,  you  are  a  fool.  All  these  things 
are  mere  externalities.  They  could  not  make 
you  a  lady,  if  you  were  not  one ;  and,  if  you 
are,  the  lack  of  them  will  not  unmake  you. 
Pluck  up  your  courage,  and  do  the  best  you 
can." 

So  I  curled  myself  up  comfortably  on  the 
sofa,  and  lay  gazing  at  the  delicious  fire.  Ah, 
that  luxury,  the  permanent  bedroom  fire!  I 
had  never  been  allowed  it  yet ;  it  never  would 
have  occurred  to  me  to  have  it,  except  in  case 
of  illness ;  but  here  it  was  apparently  the  cus- 
tom of  the  house,  and  any  one  of  a  solitary, 
shy  nature  can  best  appreciate  the  intense  com- 
fort, the  delicious  peace,  of  being  able  to  shut 
one's  door  upon  all  the  world,  and  warm  one's 
soul  and  body  thoroughly  at  one's  own  particu- 
lar bedroom  fire. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  had  done  a  kind  thing 
in  leaving  me  to  myself  until  dinner-time.  But 
to  "lie  down  and  rest,"  according  to  her  orders, 
which  the  maid  had  given  with  an  air  as  if  no- 
body ever  was  expected  to  gainsay  any  thing 
the  mistress  said — was  impossible  ;  rest  is  for  a 
later  period  of  life  than  mine.  In  an  hour  I 
had  exhausted  all  the  delights  of  fireside  medi- 
tation, all  the  interest  of  my  room,  including  the 
views  from  my  two  windows,  and  was  dying 
with  curiosity  to  penetrate  further. 

I  opened  the  door  and  peeped  out,  as  timid- 
ly as  a  young  mouse  on  her  travels.  All  was 
silent,  as  silent  as  Tennyson's  Sleeping  Palace. 
Why  should  I  not  creep  down  stairs,  just  to  ex- 
amine the  staircase  and  hall  ? 

I  delight  in  a  fine  wide  staircase ;  it  is  the 
lungs  of  a  house.  I  am  sure  people  who  plan 
grand  reception-rooms  with  narrow  ascents 
thereto,  must  have  rather  narrow  minds.  The 
planner  of  this  had  not.  As  I  looked  over  the 
balustrade  of  carved  oak — carved  as  beautifully 
as  Grinling  Gibbons  could  have  done  it — and 
then  upward  to  the  circular  ceiling,  over  which 
flying  Cupids  were  hanging  wreaths,  and  down- 
ward ta  the  broad,  polished  stairs,  winding  step 
after  step  in  smooth  dignified  progression — I 
thought  of  the  lovely  ladies  passing  up  and 
down  it  with  their  sweeping  trains — their  high 
head-dresses,  like  that  in  my  great-grandmo- 


ther's portrait— escorted  by  gentlemen — such 
gentlemen  as  was  Sir  Charles  Grandison.  And 
I  thought  then — I  fear  I  think  now — that  these 
were  far  finer  specimens  of  humanity,  inside 
and  outside,  than  the  young  men  and  women 
whom  I  shall  meet  at  the  next  dinner-party  I 
go  to,  or  have  to  see  flirting  with  my  sons  and 
daughters — when  old  enough — at  the  next  ball. 

Descending,  I  gazed  left  and  right  across 
the  hall,  which  ran  right  through  the  centre  of 
the  house  from  door  to  door.  Great  windows 
lit  it  at  either  end,  large  panes  of  stained  glass, 
forming  shapes  not  unlike  crosses — one  scarlet 
and  blue,  the  sacred  colors,  such  as  old  painters 
always  gave  to  their  Madonnas — the  other  violet 
and  green.  Supporting  the  hall  in  the  middle 
were  double  pillars  of  scagliola  marble ;  its  walls 
were  of  some  soft  gray  papering,  with  Pompeian 
figures  grouped  here  and  there ;  and  across  the 
wide  space  of  its  dark  oak  floor  ran  rivers  of 
carpeting,  cutting  it  up  a  little,  but  just  enough 
to  make  it  safe.  Only  French  feet  can  glide 
across  those  slippery  plains  of  polished  wood, 
beautiful  as  they  are.  Mine  failed  me  more 
than  once;  and  in  the  perfect  silence  and  soli- 
tude I  felt — not  altogether  comfortable,  yet  de- 
liciously,  ecstatically  happy. 

Th^re  is  a  belief  among  modern  psychologists 
— one  of  whom  has  lately  developed  jt  in  a  nov- 
el— that  we  are  none  of  us  wholly  individual  or 
original  beings,  but  made  up  of  our  countless  an- 
tecedents— of  whose  natures,  combined  or  con- 
flicting, we  partake,  and  often  feel  them  strug- 
gling within  us.  As  if  we  were  not  ourselves 
at  all,  but  somebody  else — some  far-back  pro- 
genitor whose  soul  was  new-bom  into  our  in- 
fant body,  to  work  us  weal  or  woe,  and  in- 
fluence us  more  or  less  throughout  life — a  creed 
not  more  impossible  or  ridiculous  than  many 
other  scientific  theories. 

As  I  stood  for  the  first  time  in  this  house, 
gradually  it  seemed  to  become  familiar  and  nat- 
ural. Large  and  fine  as  it  was,  it  was  a  house, 
not  a  baronial  residence.  In  it  I  felt  myself  a 
mere  drop  of  water,  but  it  was  water  conscious 
of  rising  to  its  level.  The  soul  of  my  great- 
grandmother  seemed  to  enter  into  me ;  and  I 
thought  in  my  silly,  childish  heart,  that  if  I 
only  had  a  train  I  could  sweep  up  the  beautiful 
staircase  with  as  grand  an  air  as  she.  Ay,  and 
enjoy  it  too.  So  absorbed  was  I  in  my  foolish 
dream  that  I  drew  myself  up  to  my  full  height, 
and  shook  out  my  scanty  cotton  frock,  trying 
to  imagine  myself  one  of  those  ladies,  like  what 
my  great -grandmother  must  have  been  —  my 
beautiful  great-grandmother,  whose  miniature,  > 
with  the  rose  in  her  hair,  I  knew  so  well. 

At  that  luckless  moment  I  heard  an  outer  door 
open — and  in  walked  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

I  knew  it  was  she,  though  she  looked,  of 
course,  in  her  home  dress  and  garden  wraps, 
different  from  what  she  looked  in  church.  But 
she  was  one  of  those  people  who  seem  to  make 
their  costume  instead  of  their  costume  making 
them, 
be  the  same. 


WINIFEER  WESTON  AND  LADY  DE  BOUGAINVILLE. 


I  half  hoped  her  eye  would  not  discover  me, 
but  I  was  mistaken.    She  came  forward  at  once. 

*'Is  that  you,  my  little  visitor?"  and  she  put 
out  her  hand — her  old  soft  hand,  the  softest,  I 
think,  I  ever  felt,  though  it  was  withered  and 
thin,  so  that  the  jeweled  rings  hung  loosely  on 
every  finger — "  I  thought  you  were  safe  resting 
in  your  room.  What  have  you  been  doing? 
Where  were  you  going  ?" 

Sweet  as  her  voice  was — sweet  as  when  ut- 
tering the  responses  in  church — there  was  in  it 
the  tone  of  the  mistress  and  mother,  accustomed 
all  her  life  to  be  answered  and  obeyed. 

I  answered  at  once — though  in  a  hot  agony 
of  confusion,  which  makes  me  even  now  pity 
myself  to  remember — "I  was  not  going  any 
where,  my  lady." 

She  smiled.  "Don't  say  *my  lady;'  the 
servants  only  do  that.  If  you  call  me  'ma'am' 
— as  I  was  taught  to  say  to  my  elders  when  I 
was  a  girl — it  will  do  quite  well." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  what  shall  I  call  you  ?  Miss  Weston, 
or  simply  Winifred  ?" 

"Winifred,  please,  ma'am — nothing  but  Wini- 
fred ?"  cried  I,  my  delight  suddenly  making  me 


bold.  Then  I  shrank  back  into  myself  with  a 
wild  collapse  of  shame. 

She  took  no  notice  of  it,  except  just  to  pat 
me  on  the  shoulder,  saying,  "  Very  well,  Wini- 
fred :"  and  then  began  asking  a  courteous  ques- 
tion or  two  about  my  father.  So  my  heart, 
which  had  at  first  beat  in  my  bosom  like  a  lit- 
tle steam-engine,  slowly  quieted  itself  down, 
and  I  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  look 
up  in  my  hostess's  face,  to  hear  and  answer  in- 
telligently, and  even  to  take  in  the  minutiae  of 
her  dress  and  appearance. 

What  a  picture  of  an  old  lady  she  was  !  If 
all  old  ladies  did  but  know  the  wisdom  of  rec- 
ognizing the  time  when  a  woman  should  cease 
following  fashion's  changes,  except  in  a  very 
modified  form,  and  institute,  so  far  as  she  can, 
a  permanent  costume !  Lady  de  Bougainville's 
was  charming.  Not  exactly  old-fashioned; 
neither  of  this  year,  nor  that  year,  nor  the 
year  before,  but  suited  to  all  years,  and  looking 
well  at  all  seasons.  It  was  excessively  simple, 
consisting  only  of  a  black  silk  gown,  without 
trimmings  of  any  sort,  but  the  material  was  so 
rich  and  good  that  none  were  required.  It  fit- 
ted her  figure — which  was  slender  and  straight, 


14 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


even  at  seventy  years  of  age ;  and  she  was  so 
upright  that  walking  behind  her  you  might  have 
taken  her  for  a  woman  of  thirty.  At  throat  and 
wrists  she  had  a  sort  of  frill,  made  of  fine  cam- 
bric and  Valenciennes  lace.  Over  her  widow's 
cap  was  drawn  a  garden-hood  or  capuchon,  such 
as  Frenchwomen  wear.  A  French  shawl,  of  fine 
soft  black  merino,  fell  round  her  in  comfortable 
folds.  Indeed,  there  was  something  about  her 
toilet  essentially  French.  We  had  happened 
to  live  three  months  in  that  country — my  father 
and  I — just  before  we  came  to  Brierley,  so  I  was 
able  to  detect  this  fact ;  and  also  a  small  soupgon 
of  an  accent  which  developed  itself  more  the 
more  she  spoke,  and  gave  her  speech,  as  a  slight 
foreign  accent  always  gives  to  otherwise  correct 
English,  a  certain  pretty  individuality. 

As  she  stood  before  me,  and  talked  to  me, 
in  her  ordinary  home  dress,  and  upon  ordinary 
subjects,  but  looking  none  the  less  stately  and 
beautiful  than  she  had  done  in  church  for  Sun- 
day after  Sunday,  I  felt  as  bewildered  and  en- 
rapt  as  would  a  poor  little  nun  who  suddenly 
sees  the  Virgin  Mary  or  St.  Catherine  step  down 
from  her  niche  and  become  everyday  woman- 
hood. 

When  I  had  grown  a  little  less  afraid  of  her, 
and  had  succeeded  in  answering  all  her  ques- 
tions— very  harmless,  commonplace  questions, 
about  my  father's  health  and  my  own,  but 
given  with  a  kind  of  tender  graciousness,  and 
an  earnestness  over  the  replies,  which  great  peo- 
ple do  not  always  show  to  little  people — she  put 
to  me  a  second  inquiry,  or  rather  a  repetition 
of  the  first,  which  frightened  me  as  much  as 
ever. 

For  I  felt  it  must  be  answered,  and  truly, 
even  if  untruth  had  occurred  to  me  as  one  way 
of  getting  out  of  the  difficulty — which  it  did  not. 
Lying  usually  springs  from  cowardice  ;  and, 
girl  as  I  was,  I  had  never  yet  been  afraid 
of  any  mortal  soul.  So  when  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville asked,  with  a  covert  smile,  what  I  was 
doing  when  she  caught  sight  of  me,  I  confessed, 
silly  as  I  knew  the  confession  must  make  me  ap- 
pear : 

"  I  was  trying  to  walk  up  stairs  as  if  I  had  a 
train.  I  wanted  to  fancy  myself  my  great- 
grandmother." 

"And  who  was  your  great-grandmother?" 
asked  she,  laughing  a  little,  but  not  in  the 
way  I  had  expected  and  feared. 

"A  very  beautiful  woman,  I  believe,  and 
very  rich." 

*'Ah!"  drawing  back  at  once,  "I  thought 
your  family  was  poor  ?" 

"  So  it  is  now,  but  it  was  not  always."  And 
I  explained  to  her  one  or  two  traditions  of  the 
departed  glory  of  the  Westons,  on  which  my 
imagination  had  always  hung  with  great  de- 
light. To  which  she  listened  without  com- 
ment, and  apparently  without  being  affected 
with  them  in  any  way ;  then  asked  : 

"  And  your  great-grandmother?" 

"She  was,"  I  repeated,  "a  very  beautiful 
woman ;  and  she  lived  in  a  house  which  I  sup- 


pose must  have  been  much  like  yours.  I  was 
wondering  how  she  felt  in  it." 

"  Indeed.  Then,  Winifred,  would  you  have 
liked  to  be  your  great-grandmother  ?" 

I  stopped  to  consider,  for  I  could  not  bear  to 
speak  inaccurately,  even  at  random,  "  For 
some  things  I  should,  ma'am;  not  for  all." 

"  Why  not  for  all  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  she  was  not  a  very  happy  wo- 
man." 

"Few  women  ever  are  very  happy,"  said, 
with  a  slight  sigh,  which  amazed  me  as  much 
as  her  words,  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

Of  course  I  did  not  presume  to  reply ;  and 
immediately  afterward  she  changed  the  subject 
entirely,  and  began  to  speak  to  me  about  my 
own  health,  and  the  arrangements  she  had  made 
for  me  in  her  house,  with  a  view  to  my  deriving 
as  much  benefit  from  the  change  as  possible. 
Her  questions,  suggestions,  and  advices  were 
all  extreinely  practical  and  minute,  even  to  the 
most  motherly  degree.  I  did  not  know  what 
motherhood  was  then — the  tie,  both  ways,  from 
child  to  mother  and  from  mother  to  child,  was 
to  me  a  perfect  blank  ;  but  I  had  sense  enough 
to  have  guessed  instinctively,  even  had  I  not 
known  the  fact,  that  she  who  thus  spoke  to  me 
had  been  the  mother  of  many  children ;  and 
that  the  heart  once  opened,  in  a  way  that  only 
motherhood  does  open  it,  nothing  afterward 
could  altogether  close.  Her  very  eyes,  as  they 
rested  upon  me,  had  a  pensive  tenderness  in 
them,  as  if  beyond  my  face  they  saw  another. 
Some  women  have  that  expression  whenever 
they  look  at  a  child ;  it  reminds  them  either  of 
the  dead  or  the  lost — or,  perhaps  as  sadly,  of 
the  never  born. 

I  answered  obediently  my  hostess's  questions, 
though  they  surprised  me  a  little.  I  mean,  it 
was  puzzling  to  find  out  that  my  idol  was 
not  too  ideal  to  condescend  to  such  ordinary 
things;  in  fact,  was  much  more  of  a  mortal 
woman  than  I  expected.  She  appeared  to  me 
now  not  so  much  a  medieval  saint  as  a  wise, 
sensible  mother  of  a  family,  something  like 
that  most  sensible  and  capable  woman  in  the 
Proverbs,  whose  portrait,  transmitted  to  us  from 
distant  ages,  proves  that  the  Hebrews  at  least 
had  some  notion  of  what  a  woman  ought  to  be, 
and  did  not  accept  as  their  notion  of  feminine 
perfection  a  charming,  amiable,  beautiful — fool ! 

Looking  closer  at  Lady  de  Bougainville,  it 
was  easy  to  detect  under  all  her  refinement  an 
amount  of  strength  which  circumstances  might 
drive  into  actual  hardness;  while  against  her 
high,  pure,  lofty  nature  might  be  laid  the  charge 
which  inferior  natures  often  do  lay,  that  she 
could  not  understand  them,  and  had  no  pity  for 
them.  Maybe  so !  In  her  clear,  bright,  hon- 
est eyes  lurked  the  possibility  of  that  cutting 
contempt  for  all  things  weak,  and  base,  and 
double-faced  which  a  mean  person  would  find 
difficult  to  meet ;  and  the  delicate  line  of  her 
lips  could  settle  into  a  mouth  firm  enough  to 
shame  all  cowards — a  mouth  like  my  pet  her- 
oine, Catherine  Seyton's,  when  she  put  her 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


ir> 


slender  right  arm  as  a  bar  through  the  bolts  of 
the  door,  to  protect  those  who  needed  her  pro- 
tection. Lady  de  Bougainville,  I  was  sure, 
would  have  done  the  same  any  day. 

I  was  not  old  enough  fully  to  take  in  her  char- 
acter then,  and  I  greatly  fear  that  in  many  things 
1  write  about  her  now  I  am  giving  not  so  much 
my  impressions  of  the  time  as  my  observations 
and  convictions  of  a  later  period ;  but,  child  as 
I  was,  I  could  appreciate  that  force  of  nature 
which  was  able  to  deny  as  well  as  bestow,  to 
blame  as  much  as  to  praise. 

She  blamed  me  unequivocally  for  having  dis- 
obeyed her  orders  and  quitted  my  room,  and 
would  not  listen  for  a  moment  to  my  excuses, 
which  in  their  earnest  honesty  seemed  to  amuse 
as  well  as  please  her — that  I  was  longing  to  go 
all  over  her  beautiful  house,  the  biggest  and 
most  beautiful  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life. 

"  Indeed.  Youis  must  have  been  a  quiet 
life,  then,  child.  What  sort  of  home  did  you 
live  in  ?"  « 

^'In  no  home  at  all,"  I  said,  mournfully, 
"  only  in  furnished  lodgings.  And  oh,  if  you 
did  but  know  what  it  is  to  spend  month  after 
month,  year  after  year,  in  furnished  lodgings !" 

She  smiled.  "  Then  you  have  never  been 
any  thing  but  poor,  my  dear  ?     Is  it  so  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"That  is  right,  that  is  honest.  Poverty  is 
no  shame ;  the  shame  is  for  those  who  think  it 
80,  or  fear  to  acknowledge  it.  Still  it  is  a  hard 
thing  to  bear  sometimes." 

"  Indeed  I  have  found  it  so,"  cried  I,  warmed 
up  by  this  unexpected  sympathy.  "  I  don't  like 
it  at  all,  but  I  bear  it." 

Lady  de  Bougainville  laid  her  hand,  her  deli- 
cate dear  old  hand,  upon  my  head.  "Poor 
little  thing,"  she  murmured:  ^^pauvre  petite." 
But  the  minute  she  had  let  fall  the  latter  words 
she  turned  away  from  me.  I  did  not  know  till 
long  afterward  that  she  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  speaking  French  to  her  children. 

Presently  she  addressed  me  with  a  sudden 
and  quite  uncalled-for  asperity  of  tone. 

"  So  you  are  poor,  Winifred,  and  you  would 
like  to  be  rich.  Do  not  deny  it.  I  hate  pre- 
varication— I  despise  shams.  Say  outright, 
you  foolish  child,  that  you  wish  you  were  in  my 
place,  and  lived  at  the  Hall — perhaps  even  were 
mistress  of  it,  as  I  am,  and  have  been  these 
many  years.  .  What  a  fortunate,  happy  woman 
I  must  be!" 

There  was  a  keen  sarcasm  in  her  voice  which 
actually  startled  me ;  but  immediately  she  be- 
came conscious  that  she  was  speaking  in  a  way 
quite  unsuitable  for  a  child  to  hear,  and  quite 
incomprehensible  to  most  children.  Only  I 
think  that  we  who  have  spent  our  childhood 
either  with  grown  people  or  quite  alone,  get  a 
certain  precocity  of  intuition,  sharper  and  more 
accurate  than  is  supposed.  I  should  have  been 
acute  enough  at  guessing  much  concerning  Lady 
de  Bougainville  had  I  not  been  frightened  by 
her  witch -like  faculty  of  divining  what  was 
passing  in  my  own  mind.     For  I  was  painfully 


conscious  of  having  done  exactly  as  she  said, 
and  broken  the  tenth  commandment  over  and 
over  again  that  morning. 

"Do  not  blush  so,"  she  went  on.  "You 
have  done  nothing  very  heinous,  child,  even  if 
you  have  wished  to  step  into  my  shoes,  or  to 
inherit  my  fortune  and  estate.  I  should  con- 
sider such  a  fancy  neither  wicked  nor  unnatural 
at  your  age.  Only  if  it  really  happened  I  should 
be  very  sorry  for  you." 

"Sorry!" 

Her  hand,  firmer  in  its  grasp  than  I  could 
have  thought  possible  to  such  soft  fingers,  was 
pressed  on  my  shoulder;  and  her  dark  eyes, 
no  longer  wild,  but  piercing,  penetrated  down 
to  the  very  depths  of  mine.  "Now,  child,  pay 
attention  to  me  for  a  minute,  that  we  may  be- 
gin our  acquaintance  on  a  sure  footing.  You 
are  nothing  to  me,  and  I  am  nothing  to  you, 
except  that  I  was  sorry  for  you,  as  seventy  is 
sorry  for  sixteen.  But  I  see  you  are  of  a  very 
imaginative  temperament,  as  full  of  romantic 
notions  as  any  girl  of  sixteen  can  be,  and  I  know 
Avhat  that  is — I  was  sixteen  myself  once.  But 
I  warn  you,  Winifred,  build  no  castles  in  Spain 
at  Brierley  Hall.  Do  not  fancy,  because  I  in- 
vited you  here  to  nurse  you  well  again,  and  send 
you  back  home  fit  to  battle  with  life,  as  is  your 
lot,  that  I  have  taken  a  mysterious  interest  in 
you,  and  intend  to  adopt  you,  and  make  you  my 
heiress." 

"  Ma'am !     Lady  de  Bougainville !" 

She  had  been  sitting  on  one  of  the  hall  chairs, 
and  I  on  the  staircase  in  front  of  her ;  but  now 
I  started  up,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face. 
Child  as  I  was,  my  indignation  made  me  a  wo- 
man for  the  moment — a  woman,  and  her  equal. 
I  did  not  condescend  even  to  rebut  her  accusa- 
tion ;  I  stood  a  minute,  feeling  myself  grow  hot 
and  hotter,  to  the  very  roots  of  my  hair,  and 
then  I  darted  away,  and  rushed  violently  up 
stairs. 

"Winifred,  child,  where  are  you  running 
to?" 

"  To  fetch  my  bonnet.    I  am  going  home." 

But  in  the  effort  of  speech  I  broke  down, 
and  before  I  reached  my  room  door  I  had  only 
strength  to  totter  in  and  bury  my  head  in  the 
sofa  cushions  in  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

How  long  they  lasted  I  do  not  know,  but  my 
first  consciousness  was  a  kind,  cool  hand  on 
my  head,  and  a  soft  voice  calling  me  by  my 
name.  Lady  de  Bougainville  was  standing 
over  me,  looking  grave  and  grieved,  but  not 
displeased  at  all.  Nor  amused,  as  many  per- 
sons would  have  been,  at  this  passion  of  al- 
most ludicrous  anger  in  a  young  girl,  little 
more  than  a  child.  She  held  out  her  hand, 
smiling. 

"  I  was  mistaken,  I  see.  Do  not  take  it  so 
seriously  to  heart.  May  not  an  old  woman 
talk  nonsense  if  she  likes  ?" 

"  It  was  nonsense  then  ?  You  did  not  real- 
ly think  I  came  here  with  such  ideas  in  my 
head  ?  You  do  not  suppose  me  capable  of  such 
meanness  ?    I  don't  say,"  continued  I,  for  in  all 


16 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


my  wrath  I  was  still  candid  ;  "I  don't  say  that 
I  should  not  like  to  be  as  rich  as  you — I  should ; 
and  I  have  thought  so  many  a  time  this  day. 
But  I  never  wanted  your  riches.  Keep  them 
yourself!     For  me,  I  despise  them." 

"So  do  I,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  gentle- 
ness, even  sadness,  which  to  me  was  then  whol- 
ly unaccountable. 

She  added  no  other  word,  but  stood  by  me, 
firmly  holding  my  hand,  and  looking  down  on 
me  with  a  curious  mixture  of  interest  and  com- 
passion, until  my  sobs  abated.  But  the  result 
of  the  storm  of  indignation  into  which  I  had 
throAvn  myself  was,  as  might  be  expected  for 
one  just  recovering  from  severe  illness,  any 
thing  but  satisfactory.  I  fell  into  a  sort  of 
hysterical  state,  which  soon  made  me  quite  in- 
capable of  going  down  stairs,  or  even  of  stirring 
from  my  sofa.  My  hostess  tended  me  there, 
fetching  no  servant,  but  taking  all  the  trouble 
of  me  upon  herself  for  two  or  three  hours — of 
which  I  remember  little,  except  that  she  seemed 
to  be  quite  another  person  than  my  precon- 
ceived idea  of  her.  She  soothed  me,  she  scold- 
ed me,  she  made  me  take  food  and  medicine ; 
finally  she  put  me  to  bed  like  a  baby,  and  sat 
beside  me,  reading  or  pretending  to  read,  till  I 
fell  asleep.  I  did  not  wake  till  broad  daylight 
next  morning. 

It  was  a  delicious  waking — like  dawn  after  a 
thunder-storm.  My  window  faced  the  east, 
and  the  early  sun  looked  in ;  while,  without, 
the  birds  sang  their  cheerful  songs  with  the 
especial  loudness  that  one  hears  on  a  spring 
morning.  I  felt  tired,  and  not  quite  myself, 
but  scarcely  ill.  In  truth,  I  hated  to  be  ill,  or 
to  be  kept  in  bed  one  minute  longer  than  nec- 
essary. So  before  any  one  could  restrain  me 
I  had  leaped  out,  and  was  already  up  and 
dressed  when  a  knock  came  to  my  door.  It 
was  the  maid,  entering  with  my  breakfast. 

I  was  a  little  disappointed  that  it  was  only 
the  maid,  but  I  got  a  message,  at  all  events. 

"  My  lady  wishes  to  know  if  you  are  better, 
Miss  ?  and,  if  you  are,  she  will  not  disturb  you 
till  noon.  She  herself  is  always  busy  of  a 
morning." 

Was  it  out  of  consideration  for  me  and  my 
shyness,  or  had  my  tender,  motherly  nurse  of 
the  night  before  changed  back  into  my  idol  of 
the  church  pew — my  noble,  stately,  reserved, 
and  unapproachable  Lady  de  Bougainville  ?  I 
could  not  tell,  but  I  accepted  my  lot,  whatever 
it  was.  I  implicitly  obeyed  her  ;  and,  though 
the  imprisonment  was  dreadful,  I  did  not  stir 
from  my  room  until  the  cuckoo-clock  on  the 
chimney-piece — oh,  how  I  love  a  cuckoo-clock ! 
— had  struck  twelve.  Then  out  I  darted,  to 
snatch,  eager  and  happy,  at  the  delights  that 
lay  before  me. 

Not  quite  happy  though,  for  it  struck  me  that 
I  had  made  a  goose  of  myself  the  previous 
evening;  but  still  this  little  episode,  so  un- 
comfortable and  so  unexpected,  had  had  one' 
good  result — it  had  broken  down  the  barrier 
between  my  idol  and  me,  had  taken  away  my 


dread  of  her,  and  put  a  certain  sympathy  be- 
tween us,  in  spite  of  the  alarming  difference  of 
our  years.  How  or  why  I  did  not  know,  not 
till  long  afterward  ;  but  I  felt  it  was  so.  Still, 
when  once  again  I  descended  the  stairs — not 
making  such  a  little  fool  of  myself  as  hereto- 
fore, but  walking  sagely  and  rationally,  like  a 
respectable  young  lady — and  saw,  as  yester- 
day, that  tall  black  figure  entering  in  from  the 
garden  door, -my  heart  beat  a  little  with  the  old 
throb — half  pleasure,  half  awe,  but  wholly  love. 
I  wonder  if  any  man  ever  loved  the  sight  of  me 
as  I  did  that  of  this  lovely  old  woman ! 

She  advanced  with  her  smiling  welcome, 
formal  a  little,  but  always  smiling.  I  came 
afterward  to  know  what  a  better  welcome  was, 
to  have  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  her  kiss 
on  my  cheek  ;  but  I  like  to  remember  the  ear- 
lier welcomes — just  the  simple  hand-shake,  and 
the  kindly  inquiry,  written  ^t  once  on  lips  and 
eyes.  Some  people  say  "How  do  you  do?" 
and  never  wait  to  hear  ^he  answer,  v/hich  you 
can  omit  altogether,  if  you  choose — they  will 
never  miss  it.  But  she  always  looked  as  if 
she  liked  to  hear — as  if  she  really  was  inter- 
ested in  learning  how  you  were  and  what  you 
were  doing — as  if  the  large  sympathy  which 
even  seventy  years  had  neither  narrowed  nor 
dulled  took  an  interest  in  every  minute  thing 
you  could  tell  her,  and  cared  for  your  fortunes 
as  if  they  had  been  her  own. 

After  an  inquiry  or  two,  Avhich  she  saw  rath- 
er shamed  and  confused  me,  she  ceased  speak- 
ing of  the  little  episode  of  last  night,  and  took 
up  the  thread  of  our  acquaintance  precisely 
where  we  had  left  it  yesterday. 

»*' You  were  wanting  to  see  my  house  ;  shall 
I  show  it  you  now  ?  There  will  be  quite  time 
before  luncheon," 

*'  Will  it  not  tire  you  too  much  ?"  For  I  no- 
ticed that  she  looked  extremely  pale,  and  the 
dark  circles  under  her  eyes  were  deeper,  as  if 
she  had  been  awake  all  night. 

"Are  you  tired,  Winifred?" 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,  ma'am." 

"  Then  never  mind  me.  When  I  was  young 
I  used  to  be  told  I  was  a  Spartan,"  added  she, 
smiling ;  "  and  I  try  to  be  something  of  a  Spar- 
tan still,  in  spite  of  my  age.  I  could  never  en- 
dure to  sink  into  the  invalid  or  doting  old  wo-' 
man.  I  hope  I  shall  manage  to  die  like  that 
grand  old  philosopher  who  in  his  last  moment 
started  up  from  his  arm-chair  and  said  'he 
would  die  standing.'" 

She  would,  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  her,  so 
erect  still,  with  her  feet  planted  firmly,  and  her 
eyes  flashing  bright. 

I  said,  with  a  conceited  sense  of  my  own  eru- 
dition, that  there  was  something  very  fine  in  dy- 
ing, like  Macbeth,  "with  harness  on  one's  back." 

Lady  de  Bougainville  looked  amused. 

"You  read  Shakspeare,  I  see?" 

"Oh,  I  read  everything." 

"  Everything  is  a  large  word.  Now,  I  have 
read  very  little  in  my  life.  I  am  not  at  all  an 
educated  person." 


A  BBAVE  LADY. 


17 


I  stared  in  utter  amazement. 

"It  is  quite  true,  my  dear;  or  rather,  for 
educated  I  should  have  said  '  learned'  or  '  cul- 
tivated.' "We  get  our  education  in  many  other 
ways  besides  reading  books.  But  come,  you 
will  be  more  interested  in  my  house  than  in  me." 

"Are  you  not  very  fond  of  your  house, 
ma'am  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  am.  I  like  to  have  things  suit- 
able and  beautiful  about  me.  Pretty  things 
were  always  good  company  to  me :  now  they 
are  the  only  company  I  have." 

Then  it  was  quite  true  that  she  received  no 
one ;  that  I  was  the  sole  guest  who  had  been 
admitted  into  these  precincts  for  years!  I 
could  hardly  credit  my  own  good  fortune. 
And  when  I  went  with  her,  from  room  to 
room,  talking  familiarly,  and  hearing  her  talk 
— which  was  the  greatest  treat  of  all — I  was 
almost  bewildered  with  my  happiness. 

Her  home  seemed  so  completely  a  portion 
of  herself,  that  in  telling  of  her  I  can  not  help 
telling  of  it  likewise,  and  should  like  to  de- 
scribe it  minutely. 

It  was  a  house  such  as  was  used  to  be  built 
by  the  landed  gentry  a  century  or  two  ago, 
just  when  the  type  of  Elizabethan  houses — po- 
etical, but  not  too  comfortable — was  merging 
into  that  of  modern  convenience :  convenience 
degenerating  into  luxury.  It  was  not  Gothic 
at  all — had  no  queer  corners — its  general  plan 
being  four-square;  the  four  reception-rooms 
making  the  outside  angles,  with  the  large  cen- 
tral hall  between.  Some  people  might  say  it 
was  not  a  picturesque  house,  but  it  was  what 
I  call  an  honest  house ;  in  which  every  thing 
feels  real,  substantial,  and  sound;  well  built, 
well  ventilated;  with  high  ceilings  and  airy 
passages,  giving  one  breathing  room  and  walk- 
ing room;  plenty  of  windofvs  to  see  out  of, 
and  snug  recesses  to  creep  into;  warm  solid 
walls,  and  wide  hospitable  fire-places :  in  short, 
a  house  containing  every  requisite  for  a  home 
and  a  family — a  large,  merry,  happy  house- 
hold— contented  in  itself,  and  on  good  terms 
with  the  world  outside.  And  in  it  Lady  de 
Bougainville  lived — all  alone.        ^ 

She  took  me  from  room  to  room,  explaining 
the  plan  of  the  whole  house,  and  showing  me 
the  ground-floor  apartments;  drawing-room, 
dining-room,  morning-room,  library.  All  were 
in  perfect  order:  even  the  fires  laid  in  the 
grates,  ready  to  be  kindled  in  a  moment,  to 
welcome  a  large  family  or  a  houseful  of  guests. 
And  then  we  went  slowly  up  the  beautiful  stair- 
case, and  she  pointed  out  the  exquisite  oak 
carvings,  the  painted  panels,  and  highly-deco- 
rated ceilings ;  telling  me  how  they  had  been 
found  covered  up  with  plaster,  whitewash,  and 
other  barbarisms  of  the  last  century;  what 
pains  she  had  taken  to  disinter  them,  and  re- 
store them  to  their  original  state.  In  describ- 
ing, she  regarded  them  with  a  curious  tender- 
ness— like  one  who  has  grown  fond  of  inani- 
mate objects — probably  from  having  long  had 
onlv  inanimate  objects  to  love. 
B 


I  ventured  no  questions:  but  I  must  have 
looked  them,  for  once,  turning  suddenly  to  me, 
she  said : 

"I  dare  say  you  think  this  a  large  house  for 
one  old  woman  to  live  in — large  and  gloomy 
and  empty.  But  it  does  not  feel  empty  to  me. 
When  one  has  lived  seventy  years,  one  is  sure 
to  have,  whether  alone  or  not,  plenty  of  com- 
panions ;  and  it  depends  much  upon  one's  self 
whether  they  are  pleasant  company  or  not.  I 
am  quite  content  with  mine.  No,  I  did  not 
mean  ghosts" — (seeing,  doubtless,  a  shade  of 
slight  apprehension  on  my  face,  for,  like  all  im- 
aginative, solitary  children,  I  had  suffered  hor- 
ribly from  supernatural  fears).  "  I  assure  you, 
Winifred,  my  house  is  not  haunted ;  I  have  no 
ghosts ;  at  least,  none  that  you  will  see.  Be- 
sides, you  are  too  much  of  a  woman  to  have  a 
child's  sillinesses.  How  old  did  you  say  you 
were?     I  forget," 

I  told  her,  sixteen. 

" I  was  married  the  day  I  was  sixteen." 

Then  for  fifty-four  years  she  must  have  been 
Lady  de  Bougainville.  I  longed  to  inquire  fur- 
ther ;  to  find  out  what  her  maiden  name  was, 
what  her  husband  had  been  like,  and  how  they 
fell  in  love  with  one  another.  They  must  have 
been  such  young  lovers,  for  I  had  discovered, 
by  arithmetical  calculations  from  the  date  on 
his  monument,  that  he  was  only  about  five  years 
older  than  she.  How  I  longed  to  hear  it — this 
love-story  of  half  a  century  ago;  interesting 
and  delicious  as  all  love-stories  are  to  girls  of 
my  age,  eager  to  go  the  way  their  mothers  and 
grandmothers  went,  only  believing  that  with 
themselves  the  great  drama  of  life  would  be 
played  out  in  a  far  higher  manner :  as  it  never 
has  been  played  before, 

I  craved  for  even  a  word  or  two  concerning 
the  past  to  fall  from  those  lips — what  sweet  lips 
they  must  have  been  when,  at  only  sixteen,  they 
repeated  the  marriage  vows ! — but  none  did  fall. 
The  love-story  never  came.  And,  kind  as  she 
was,  there  was  something  about  my  hostess 
which  at  once  excited  and  repressed  curiosity. 
What  she  chose  to  reveal  of  her  own  accord 
was  one  thing;  but  to  attempt  to  extract  it 
from  her  was  quite  another.  You  felt  that  at 
the  first  daring  question  she  would  wither  you 
with  her  cold  rebuke,  or  in  her  calm  and  ut- 
terly impassive  courtesy  speak  of  something 
else,  as  if  she  had  never  heard  you.  The  proof- 
armor  of  perfect  politeness,  as  smooth  and  glit- 
tering as  steel,  and  as  invulnerable,  was  hers  to 
a  degree  that  I  never  saw  in  any  other  woman. 

Though  from  the  very  beginning  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, either  from  some  instinctive  sym- 
pathy, or  from  the  natural  tendency  of  old  age 
to  go  back  upon  its  past,  especially  to  the  young, 
with  whom  it  can  both  reveal  and  conceal  as 
much  as  it  chooses,  Lady  de  Bougainville  often 
let  fall  fragments  of  her  most  private  history, 
which  an  ingenious  fancy  could  easily  put  to- 
gether and  fit  in,  so  as  to  arrive  at  the  truth  of 
things — a  much  deeper  truth  than  she  was  aware 
of  having  betrayed — still,  in  all  my  relations  to- 


18 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


ward  her  I  never  dared  to  ask  her  a  direct  ques- 
tion. She  would  have  repelled  and  resented  it 
immediately. 

So,  even  on  this  first  day,  I  had  the  sense  to 
be  content  with  learning  no  more  than  she  con- 
descended to  tell  me :  in  fact,  I  did  little  else 
than  follow  her  about  the  house,  and  listen  while 
she  talked. 

Her  conversation  at  once  charmed  and  puz- 
zled me.  It  was  more  "like  a  book,"  as  the 
phrase  is,  than  any  person's  I  had  ever  met ; 
yet  it  sounded  neither  stilted  nor  affected.  It 
was  merely  that,  from  long  isolation,  she  ex- 
pressed herself  more  as  people  write  or  think 
than  as  they  talk.  This,  not  because  she  was 
very  learned — I  believe  she  was  quite  correct  in 
saying  she  had  never  been  a  highly-educated 
woman — the  cleverness  in  her  was  not  acquired, 
but  original;  just  as  her  exquisite  refinement 
was  not  taught,  but  inborn.  Yet  these  two 
facts  made  her  society  so  interesting. '  Con- 
versing with  her  and  with  everyday  people  was 
as  different  as  passing  from  Shakspeare  to  the 
daily  newspaper. 

It  was  impossible  that  such  an  influence 
should  not  affect  a  girl  of  my  age  and  dispo- 
sition—  suddenly,  decisively,  overwhelmingly. 
I  still  recall,  with  an  intoxication  of  delight, 
that  soft  spring  morning,  that  sunny  spring 
afternoon — for,  luncheon  over,  we  went  wan- 
dering about  the  house  again — when  I  followed 
her  like  a  dog  from  room  to  room,  growing 
every  hour  more  fascinated,  and  attaching  my- 
self to  her  with  that  dog-like  faithfulness  which 
some  one  (whom  I  need  not  now  refer  to,  but 
who  knows  me  pretty  well  by  this  time)  says  is 
a  part  of  my  nature.  Well,  well,  never  mind ! 
It  might  be  better,  and  it  might  be  worse — for 
me  and  for  others — that  I  have  this  quality.  I 
do  not  think  it  was  the  worse,  at  any  rate,  for 
her — my  dear  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

I  fancy  she  rather  liked  having  even  a  dog- 
like creature  tracking  her  steps,  and  looking 
up  in  her  face — she  had  been  alone  so  long. 
Old  as  she  was,  and  sad  as  her  life  must  have 
been,  by  nature  she  was  certainly  a  cheerful- 
minded  person.  There  was  still  a  curious  vi- 
tality and  elasticity  about  her,  as  if  in  her  heart 
she  liked  being  happy,  and  seeing  other  people 
the  same. 

She  especially  enjoyed  my  admiration  of  the 
tapestry-room,  a  large  salon — the  French  would 
call  it ;  and  the  word  dropped  out  of  her  own 
lips  unawares,  convincing  me  more  and  more 
of  what  I  did  not  d.re  to  inquire — her  French 
extraction.  She  told  me  when  she  first  came 
to  Brierley  Hall — which  had  been  bought  from 
the  Crown,  to  whom  the  estate  had  fallen  due, 
after  two  centuries  of  wasteful  possession  by  the 
heirs  of  some  valiant  soldier,  to  whom  a  grate- 
ful monarch  had  originally  presented  it — this 
room  was  covered  with  the  commonest  paper- 
ing, until  some  lucky  hole  made  her  discover 
underneath  what  looked  like  tapestry.  Further 
search  laid  bare  six  beautiful  pieces  of  work,  in 
perfect  preservation,  let  into  the  wall  like  pic- 


tures :  just  as  they  hung  there  now,  in  the  soft 
faded  coloring  which  gives  to  old  tapestry  a  look 
at  once  so  beautiful,  and  tender,  and  ghostly ; 
as  if  one  saw  hovering  over  every  stitch  the 
shadow  of  the  long-dead  fingers  that  sewed  It. 

"How  glad  you  must  have  been,"  I  said, 
"when  you  tore  down  the  horrid  papering  and 
found  out  all  this ! " 

"  Yes,  I  was  very  glad.  I  liked  all  old 
things.  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "the  tapestry 
is  fine  in  itself;  Vandyck  even  might  have  de- 
signed it.  Possibly  one  of  his  pupils  did  :  it 
seems  about  that  period.  See  how  well  they 
are  drawn,  these  knights  and  ladies,  kings  and 
queens,  foresters  and  their  falcons,  horsemen 
with  their  steeds.  Such  a  whirl  as  it  is,  such 
numerous  figures,  so  lifelike,  and  so  good  I" 

"And  what  does  it  all  mean,  ma'am?" 

"Nobody  knows;  we  have  never  been  able 
to  make  out.  In  some  things  it  might  answer 
to  the  story  of  Columbus.  Here  is  a  man  like 
him  coming  before  a  king  and  queen — Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella;  they  are  sitting  crowned, 
you  see ;  and  then  this  looks  like  his  meeting 
with  them  afterward,  laden  with  the  riches  of 
the  New  World.  But  all  is  mere  guess-work ; 
we  have  no  data  to  go  upon.  We  used  to  guess 
endlessly  about  our  new  tapestry  the  first  year, 
then  we  accepted  it  as  it  was,  and  guessed  no 
more.  But  think — "  and  she  stood  gazing 
dreamily  at  these  faint-colored,  shadowy,  life- 
size  figured,  which  seemed  to  make  the  wall 
alive — "  think  of  all  the  years  it  took  the  artist 
to  design,  the  seamstresses  to  complete  that  tap- 
estry, and  how  their  very  names  are  forgotten 
— nay,  we  can  not  even  find  out  what  their 
handiwork  meant  to  portray !  They  and  it  are 
alike  ghosts,  as  we  all  shall  be  soon.  'Man 
goeth  about  like  a  shadow,  and  disquieteth 
himself  in  vain.' " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  with  the  " priggishness" 
of  youth,  being  conceited  over  my  knowledge 
of  my  Bible,  I  added  the  remainder  of  the  text : 
"  'he  heapeth  up  riches,  and  can  not  tell  who 
shall  gather  them.' " 

The  moment  I  had  uttered  the  words  I  felt 
that  I  had  made  a  mistake — more  than  a  mis- 
take, it  was%n  actual  cruelty;  one  of  those 
chance  stabs  that  we  sometimes  give  to  the  peo- 
ple we  love  best,  and  are  most  tender  over; 
which  afterward  we  would  give  the  world  to  re- 
call :  and,  though  it  was  done  most  harmlessly, 
and  in  pure  ignorance,  grieve  over  and  feel  as 
guilty  about  as  if  we  had  committed  an  actual 
crime. 

I  saw  I  had  somehow  unawares  struck  Lady 
de  Bougainville  to  the  very  heart.  Not  that 
she  showed  it  much ;  she  did  not  speak — no,  I 
forget,  I  think  she  did  speak,  making  some 
commonplace  remark  about  my  familiarity  with 
Scripture;  but  there  came  a  gray  shadow  all 
over  her  face,  the  features  quivered  visibly,  she 
turned  away,  and  suddenly  sat  down  in  the 
broad  window-sill,  clasping  her  arms  together 
on  her  lap,  and  looking  out  at  the  view ;  then 
beyond  the  view,  up  to  the  rosy  floating  clouds 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


19 


of  the  spring  sunset,  until  gradually  its  beauty 
seemed  to  soothe  her  and  take  away  her  pain. 

By-and-by  I  ventured  to  ask,  chiefly  to  break 
the  silence,  whether  she  ever  sat  in  this  room. 
It  was  a  very  large  room,  with  six  windows, 
and  a  good  view  from  each ;  but  its  size  and 
ghostliness  and  the  dim  figures  on  the  walls 
would  make  it  rather  "eerie"  to  sit  in,  espe- 
cially of  evenings. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  child  ?  I  do  not.  I  often 
stay  here,  quite  alone,  until  bedtime.  "Would 
you  like  to  see  my  bedroom  ?  Perhaps  you  will 
think  that  a  more  'eerie'  place  still." 

It  certainly  was.  As  large  fully  as  the  tap- 
estry-room, out  of  which  you  passed  into  it  by 
a  short  flight  of  stairs.  It  was  divided  in  the 
centre  by  pillars,  between  which  hung  heavy 
curtains,  which  at  pleasure  could  be  made  com- 
pletely to  hide  the  bed.  And  such  a  bed  ! — a 
catafalque  rather — raised  on  a  dais,  and  ascend- 
ed by  steps.  To  enter  it  would  have  been  like 
going  to  bed  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  wak- 
ing up  in  it  one  would  have  felt  as  if  one  were 
a  dead  hero  lying  in  state. 

What  an  awful  place !  I  asked  timidly  if 
she  really  slept  in  that  room,  and  quite  alone  ? 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered.  "The  servants 
inhabit  a  different  part  of  the  house.  Once 
when  I  was  ill,  this  winter,  my  maid  wanted  to 
sleep  in  a  corner  there ;  she  is  a  good  girl,  and 
vety  fond  of  me,  but  I  would  not  let  her.  I 
prefer  being  quite  alone.  Seventy,"  she  added, 
smiling,  "is  not  nearly  so  fearful  of  solitude  as 
sixteen." 

"And  you  are  really  not  afraid,  ma'am?" 

"What  should  I  be  afraid  of?  my  own  com- 
pany, or  the  company  of  those  ghosts  I  spoke 
of?  which  are  very  gentle  ghosts,  and  will  nev- 
er come  to  you,  child,"  and  once  more  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  my  head.  I  think  she  rather 
liked  my  curls;  she  said  they  were  "pretty 
curls."  "  Child,  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  am 
you  will  have  found  out  that,  after  all,  we  must 
learn  to  be  content  with  loneliness.  For,  more 
or  less,  we  live  alone,  and  assuredly  we  shall 
die  alone.  Who  will  go  with  us  on  that  last, 
last  journey  ?  Which  of  our  dear  ones  have  we 
been  able  to  go  with  ?  We  can  but  take  them 
in  our  arms  to  the  awful  shore,  see  them  slip 
anchor  and  sail  away — whither?  We  know 
not." 

"But,"  I  whispered,  "God  knows." 

Lady  de  Bougainville  started,  as  if  my  sim- 
ple words  had  cast  a  sudden  light  into  her  mind. 
"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  she  said,  "  it  is  good  for 
US  always  to  remember  that :  we  can  not  at  first, 
but  sometimes  we  do  afterward.  So" — turning 
her  eyes  on  that  great  catafalque  of  a  bed  with 
its  massive  draperies  and  nodding  plumes — "I 
lie  down  every  night  and  rise  up  every  morning 
quite  content;  thinking,  with  equal  content, 
that  I  shall  some  day  lie  down  there  to  rise  up 
no  more." 

I  was  awed.  Not  exactly  frightened :  there 
was  nothing  to  alarm  one  in  that  soft,  measured 
voice,  talking  composedly  of  things  we  do  not 


usually  talk  about,  and  which  to  young  people 
seem  always  so  startling — but  I  was  awed.  I 
had  never  thought  much  about  death ;  had  nev- 
er come  face  to  face  with  it.  It  was  still  to  me 
the  mysterious  secret  of  the  universe,  rather 
beautiful  than  terrible.  My  imagination  played 
with  it  often  enough,  but  my  heart  had  never 
experienced  it — not  like  hers. 

Finding  nothing  to  say  that  seemed  worth 
saying,  I  went  round  the  room  ;  examining  the 
pictures  which  hung  upon  its  walls.  They 
seemed  all  portraits  of  different  sizes  and  sorts, 
from  crayon  sketches  and  black  silhouettes  to 
full-length  oil-paintings — of  young  people  of 
different  ages,  from  childhood  to  manhood  and 
womanhood.  They  had  the  interest  which  at- 
taches to  all  portraits,  bad,  good,  or  indifferent, 
more  than  to  many  grander  pictures;  and  I 
stood  and  looked  at  them,  wondering  who  they 
were,  but  not  daring  to  inquire,  until  she  solved 
my  difficulty  by  saying,  as  we  went  out  of  the 
room, 

"These  are  my  children."  Not  "these  were,'' 
but  "these  are."" — Her  six  dead  children. 

And  their  father  ? 

I  did  not  ask  about  him,  and  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  portrait  in  the  room  which  could  pos- 
sibly have  been  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville. 
Once  or  twice  in  showing  me  the  house  she  had 
cursorily  mentioned  his  name,  "Sir  Edward 
bought  this,"  or  "Sir  Edward  preferred  that," 
but  it  was  always  as  "  Sir  Edward,"  never  as 
"my  husband" — that  fond  name  which  many 
widows  always  use,  as  if  tenaciously  anxious 
that  death  itself  should  not  loosen  one  link  of 
the  precious  tie. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  retired  to  dress  for  din- 
ner, and  I  had  to  do  the  same.  Hurrying  over 
my  toilet,  and  eager  to  re-examine  the  house 
at  every  available  minute,  I  came  ignorantly 
into  the  only  room  where  we  had  not  penetrated 
— the  dining-room — and  there  saw,  lit  up  by 
the  blazing  fire,  the  only  picture  there — a  large 
portrait  in  oils. 

"Who  is  that?"  I  took  courage  presently  to 
ask  of  the  man-servant  who  was  laying  the 
table,  with  glittering  plate  and  deUcate  glass 
more  beautiful  than  any  I  had  ever  seen. 

"It's  Sir  Edward,  Miss  —  my  lady's  hus-    ' 
band." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  I  said,  trying  to  look  un- 
concerned, and  speedily  quitting  the  room,  for 
I  was  a  little  afraid  of  that  most  respectable 
footman. 

But,  in  truth,  I  never  was  more  astonished 
than  at  this  discovery.  First,  the  portrait  was 
in  clerical  robes ;  and,  though  I  ought  to  have  ' 
known  it,  I  certainly  did  not  know  that  a  "  Sir" 
could  be  also  a  "  Reverend. "  Then  it  was  such 
a  common  face — good-looking,  perhaps,  in  so 
far  as  abundant  whiskers,  great  eye8>  rosy 
cheeks,  and  a  large  nose  constitute  handsome- 
ness; but  there  was  nothing  in  it — nothing 
whatever!  Neither  thought,  feeling,  nor  in- 
tellect were  likely  ever  to  have  existed  under 
those  big  bones,  covered  with  comfortable  flesh 


20 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


and  blood.  Perhaps  this  was  partly  the  artist's 
fault.  He  must  have  been  a  commonplace 
artist,  from  the  stiff,  formal  attitude  in  which 
he  had  placed  his  sitter — at  a  table,  with  an 
open  book  before  him  and  a  crimson  curtain 
behind.  But  Titian  himself  would  have  strug- 
gled vainly  to  impart  interest  to  that  round  fore- 
head, long  weak  chin,  and  rabbit  mouth,  with 
its  good-natured,  self-complacent  smile. 

I  contrasted  the  portrait  mentally  with  the 
living  face  of  Lady  de  Bougainville — her  sharp- 
ly-cut yet  mobile  features,  her  firm  close  lips, 
her  brilliant  eyes.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
this  man  was  her  husband  ?  Had  I,  with  the 
imaginative  faculty  of  youth,  constructed  a  ro- 
mance which  never  existed  ?  Had  her  life  been, 
to  say  the  least,  a  great  mistake — at  any  rate, 
so  far  as  concerned  her  marriage  ?  How  could 
she  marry  a  man  like  that !  I  know  not  wheth- 
er I  most  pitied  or — may  Heaven  forgive  me  my 
momentary  harsh  judgment,  given  with  the  rash 
reaction  peculiar  to  young  people ! — condemned 
her. 

'''^^'Yes,  I  was  hard;  to  the  living  and  to  the 
dead  likewise.  The  portrait  may  not  have  been 
like  the  original :  I  have  seen  many  a  good  face 
so  villainously  reproduced  by  an  inferior  artist 
that  you  would  hardly  recognize  your  best  friend. 
But,  granting  that  he  was  handsome — which 
from  after  and  circumstantial  evidence  I  am 
pretty  sure  of — still.  Sir  Edward  de  Bougain- 
ville could  never  have  had  either  a  very  clever 
or  very  pleasant  face.  Not  even  in  his  youth, 
when  the  portrait  was  painted.  It  was  a  pres- 
entation portrait,  in  a  heavy  gilt  frame,  which 
bore  the  motto,  "From  an  admiring  Congrega- 
tion," of  some  church  in  Dublin. 

Then,  had  Sir  Edward  been  an  Irishman? 
It  was  decidedly  an  Irish  face — not  of  the  broad 
and  flat-nosed,  but  the  dark  and  good-featured 
type.  De  Bougainville  was  not  at  all  an  Irish 
name ;  but  I  knew  there  had  been  a  consider- 
able influx  of  French  families  into  Ireland  after 
the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  How  I 
longed  to  ask  questions !  but  it  was  impossible. 

At  dinner  my  hostess  sat  with  her  back  to 
the  portrait ;  I  directly  opposite  to  it  and  her. 
The  candelabra  glimmered  between  us — how  I 
love  the  delicate,  pure  light  of  wax-candles ! — 
glimmered  on  her  softly-tinted  old  face,  set  off" 
by  the  white  muslin  of  her  widow's  cap,  and 
the  rich  lace  at  her  throat  and  on  her  bosom ; 
upon  her  shining  black  silk  dress,  and  her  nu- 
merous rings.  As  I  have  said,  her  appearance 
was  essentially  aristocratic,  but  she  had  come 
to  that  time  of  life  when  only  a  noble  soul  will 
make  it  so :  when  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world,  if  she  have  only  beauty  to  recom- 
mend her,  fades  into  commonplace  plainness ; 
and  neither  birth  nor  breeding  will  supply  the 
want  of  what  includes  and  outshines  them  both 
— the  lamp  burning  inaide  the  lovely  house ;  and 
so  making  it  lovely  even  to  its  latest  moment  of 
decay. 

This  was  exactly  what  I  saw  in  her,  and  did 
not  see  in  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville.     The 


portrait  quite  haunted  me.  I  wondered  how 
she  could  sit  underneath  it  day  after  day ; 
whether  she  liked  or  disliked  to  look  at  it,  or 
whether  during  long  years  she  had  grown  so 
used  to  it  that  she  scarcely  saw  it  at  all.  And 
yet,  as  we  rose  to  retire,  those  big  staring  eyes 
of  the  dead  man  seemed  to  follow  her  out  of  the 
room,  as  if  to  inquire, "  Have  you  forgotten  me  ?" . 

Had  she  ?  Can  a  woman,  after  ever  so  sad| 
a  wedded  life,  ever  so  long  a  widowhood,  quite 
forget  the  husband  of  her  youth,  the  father  of 
her  children  ?  There  are  circumstances  when 
she  might  do  so — other  circumstances  when  I 
almost  think  she  ought.  Nevertheless,  I  doubt 
if  she  ever  can.  This,  without  any  sentimental 
belief  in  never-dying  love — for  love  can  be  killed 
outright ;  and  when  its  life  has  fled,  better 
that  its  corpse  should  be  buried  out  of  sight: 
let  there  be  no  ridiculous  shams  kept  up,  but 
let  a  silence  complete  as  that  of  the  grave  fall 
— between  even  child  and  parent,  husband  and 
wife.  Still,  as  to  forgetting?  Men  may;  I 
can  not  tell:  but  we  women  never  forget. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  took  my  arm — a  mere 
kindliness,  as  she  required  no  support,  and  was 
much  taller  than  I — and  we  went  out  of  the 
dining-room  through  the  hall,  where,  in  spite 
of  the  lamp,  the  moonlight  lay  visibly  on  the 
scagliola  pillars,  clear  and  cold.  I  could  not 
help  shivering.  She  noticed  it,  and  immedi- 
ately gave  orders  that,  instead  of  the  drawing- 
room,  we  should  go  and  sit  in  the  cedar  parlor. 

"It  will  be  warmer  and  more  cheerful  for 
you,  Winifred ;  and,  besides,  I  like  my  cedar 
parlor ;  it  reminds  me  of  my  friend,  Miss  Har- 
riett Byron.  You  have  read  'Sir  Charles 
Grandison  ?' " 

I  had,  and  burst  into  enthusiasm  over  the 
"  man  of  men,"  doubting  if  there  are  such  men 
nowadays. 

"  No,  nor  ever  were,"  said,  with  a  sharp  ring 
in  her  voice,  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

Then,  showing  me  the  wainscoting  of  cedar- 
wood,  she  told  me  how  it  also  had  been  dis- 
covered, like  the  tapestry  and  the  oak  carvings, 
when  Brierley  Hall  was  put  under  repair,  which 
had  occupied  a  whole  year  and  more  after  the 
house  was  bought. 

"Why  did  you  buy  it,  if  it  was  so  dilapi- 
dated ?"  I  asked. 

"Because  we  wanted  something  old,  yet 
something  that  Avould  make  into  a  family  seat 
— the  root  of  a  numerous  race.  And  we  re- 
quired a  large  house ;  there  were  so  many  of 
us  then.     Now — " 

She  stopped.  Accustomed  as  she  had  grown 
to  the  past,  with  much  of  its  pain  deadened  by^ 
the  merciful  anassthesia  of  time  and  old  age, 
still,  talking  to  me,  a  stranger,  seemed  to  revive 
it  a  little.  As  she  stood  by  the  fire,  the  light 
shining  on  her  rings — a  heap  of  emeralds  and 
diamonds,  almost  concealing  the  wedding-ring, 
now  a  mere  thread  of  gold — I  could  see  how 
she  twisted  her  fingers  together,  and  clasped 
and  unclasped  her  hands ;  physical  actions  im- 
plying sharp  mental  pain. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


21 


But  she  said  nothing,  and  after  we  had  had 
our  coffee — delicious  French  cafe-au-lait^  served 
in  the  most  exquisite  Sevres  china — she  took 
up  a  book,  and  giving  me  another,  we  both  sat 
reading  quietly,  almost  without  speaking  an- 
other syllable,  until  my  bedtime. 

When  I  went  to  bed — early,  by  her  command 
— she  touched  my  cheeks,  French  fashion,  with 
her  lips.  Many  will  laugh  at  the  confession — 
but  that  kiss  seemed  to  thrill  me  all  through 
with  a  felicity  as  deep  and  intense  as  that  of  a 
young  knight,  who,  having  won  his  spurs,  re- 
ceives for  the  first  time  the  benediction  and 
salutation  of  his  beloved. 

When  I  entered  my  room  it  was  bright  with 
fire-light  and  the  glow  of  scarlet  curtains.  I 
reveled  in  its  novel  luxuries  as  if  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  them  all  my  days.  They  grat- 
ified my  taste,  my  imagination,  my  senses — 
shall  I  say  my  soul  ?  Yes,  a  part  of  one's  soul 
does  take  pleasure,  and  has  a  right  to  take 
pleasure,  in  material  comfort  and  beauty.  I 
had  greatly  enjoyed  wandering  over  that  hand- 
some house,  dining  at  the  well-appointed  table, 
spending  the  evening  in  the  pretty  cedar  par- 
lor. Now,  when  I  retired  into  my  own  cham- 
ber, into  the  innermost  chamber  of  my  own 
heart,  how  fared  it  with  me  ? 

Let  me  tell  the  truth.  I  sat  a  while,  wrapped 
in  purely  sensuous  satisfaction.  Then  I  thought 
of  my  poor  father,  sitting  in  his  cold  study,  hav- 
ing none  of  these  luxuries,  nor  caring  for  them. 
An  ugly  house  to  him  was  the  same  as  a  pretty 
one — a  blank  street-wall  as  a  lovely  view.  Pleas- 
ant things  were  altogether  wasted  upon  him ; 


nay,  he  despised  them,  and  would  have  despised 
me,  I  knew,  had  he  seen  in  me  any  tendency — 
alas!  an  hereditary  tendency — to  luxury  and 
selfish  extravagance.  Yet  I  had  it,  or  I  feared 
so  sometimes ;  but  perhaps  the  very  fear  en- 
abled me  to  keep  it  under  wholesome  control. 
It  sometimes  is  so.  The  most  strictly  truthful 
person  I  ever  knew  said  to  me  once,  "I  believe 
I  was  born  a  liar,  till  I  found  out  that  lying  ran 
in  our  blood,  and  that  cured  me." 

My  cure  came  in  a  different  way,  but  not  im- 
mediately. I  well  recall  the  bitterness  with 
which,  this  night,  I  sat  comparing  my  bedroom 
in  Brierley  Hall  with  the  wretched  attic  which 
I  tried  so  hard  to  make  tolerably  pretty,  and 
could  not.  Was  I  destined  always  to  live  thus 
— struggling  vainly  against  natural  tastes,  which 
Providence  did  not  choose  to  gratify?  Were  they 
therefore  wrong  ?  Was  it  any  blame  to  Lady  de 
Bougainville  that,  in  spite  of  her  saying  if  1 
were  as  rich  as  she,  "she  should  be  very  sorry 
for  me,"  she  should  be  at  this  minute  ascend- 
ing her  beautiful  staircase  to  her  stately  bed- 
room— I  heard  her  shut  its  door — and  laying 
down  her  lovely  hair  upon  those  laced  pillows, 
as  she  must  have  done  all  her  life  ?  She  had 
doubtless  been  born  to  all  these  pleasant  nec- 
essaries ;  I,  if  I  wanted  them,  must  earn  them. 
Were  they  wrong  in  themselves,  or  only  wrong 
when  attained  at  the  sacrifice  of  higher  and 
better  things?  Does  a  blessing,  which,  freely 
bestowed  by  Heaven,  may  be  as  freely  and  right- 
eously enjoyed,  become  a  sin  when,  being  de- 
nied, it  is  so  madly  craved  after  as  to  corrupt 
our  whole  nature  ? 


WmnVKD'S  THOUQHTS. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


I  was  sitting  thus,  trying  to  solve  in  my  fool- 
ish, childish  mind  all  the  puzzles  of  the  uni- 
verse, with  the  gaunt,  grim,  reproachful  face 
of  John  the  Baptist  looking  down  on  me  from 
overhead,  when  a  slight  knock  came  to  my 
door— three  little  knocks  indeed.  My  nerves 
had  been  wound  up  to  such  a  pitch  of  excite- 
ment that  I  forgot  the  simple  solution  of  the 
mystery — that  Lady  de  Bougainville's  room 
had  only  a  small  ante-chamber  between  it  and 
mine ;  and  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  tall 
figure  in  a  dressing-gown  of  gray  flannel,  not 
unlike  a  monk  or  a  nun,  stood  there,  I  screamed 
with  superstitious  terror. 

"Foolish  child!"  was  all  she  said,  and  ex- 
plained that  she  had  seen  the  light  shining  un- 
der my  dpor,  and  that  girls  of  sixteen  ought  to 
have  their  "  beauty-sleep"  for  a  full  hour  be- 
fore midnight.  And  then  she  asked  me  what 
I  was  doing. 

"Nothing,  only  thinking." 

"  What  were  you  thinking  about  ?" 

From  the  very  first,  when  she  put  any  ques- 
tion in  that  way,  I  never  thought  of  answering 
by  the  slightest  prevarication — nothing  but  the 
direct,  entire  truth.     Nobody  could,  to  her. 

"I  was  thinking  about  earning  a  fortune; 
such  a  fortune  as  yours." 

She  started,  as  if  some  one  had  touched  her 
with  a  cold  dead  hand.  "  What  do  you  know 
of  my  fortune  or  of  me  ?" 

*' Nothing,"  I  eagerly  answered,  only  adding 
that  I  wished  I  was  as  rich  as  she  was,  or  could 
in  any  way  get  riches — with  many  other  ex- 
travagant expressions  •  for  I  had  worked  my- 
self up  into  a  most  excited  state,  and  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  saying. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  must  have  seen  this, 
for,  instead  of  sending  me  at  once  to  bed,  she 
sat  down  beside  me  and  took  my  hand. 

*'And  so  you  would  like  to  earn  a  fortune, 
as  I  earned  mine,  and  to  enjoy  it,  as  I  enjoyed 
mine?  Poor  child!"  She  sat  thoughtful  a 
little,  then  suddenly  said,  "I  do  not  like  even 
a  child  to  deceive  herself.  Shall  I  tell  you  a 
story?" 

I  expected  it  would  have  been  the  story  of 
her  life ;  but  no,  it  was  only  a  little  fable  of  a 
shepherd  who,  elevated  from  his  sheepfolds  to 
be  vizier  to  a  caliph,  was  accused  of  appropri- 
ating his  master's  treasures,  and  hiding  them 
in  a  wooden  box  which  he  always  kept  beside 
him.  At  last,  spurred  on  by  the  vizier's  ene- 
mies, the  caliph  insisted  on  seeing  the  contents 
of  the  box,  and  came  with  all  his  courtiers  to  wit- 
ness its  opening.  It  contained  only  a  ragged 
woolen  coat,  shepherd's  sandals,  and  a  crook. 

*' Now,  Winifred,  would  you  like  to  play  the 
caliph  and  the  envious  courtiers?  Will  you 
come  and  look  at  my  hidden  treasure  ?" 

She  led  the  way  into  her  bedroom,  where 
the  fire-light  shone  on  masses  of  damask  dra- 
pery, and  mirrors  which  at  each  step  repro- 
duced our  figures.  How  noble  and  stately  hers 
was,  even  in  the  gray  dressing-gown !  At  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  quite  hidden  by  a  velvet  cush- 


ion which  covered  it,  lay  one  of  those  old-fash- 
ioned hair-trunks  which  were  in  use  about  half 
a  century  ago.  She  unlocked  it,  and  therein 
was — what  think  you  ? 

A  gown  of  white  dimity,  or  what  had  been 
white,  but  was  now  yellow  with  lying  by,  three 
little  girls'  frocks  of  commonest  lilac  print,  two 
pairs  of  boys'  shoes  very  much  worn,  and,  patch-  ' 
ed  all  over  with  the  utmost  neatness,  a  pair  of 
threadbare  boy's  trowsers. 

This  was  all.  I  looked  into  the  box,  as  I 
might  have  looked  into  a  coffin,  but  I  said  not 
a  word  :  her  face  warned  me  I  had  better  not. 
Silently  she  locked  up  the  trunk  again ;  then, 
with  a  tender  carefulness,  as  if  she  were  wrap- 
ping up  a  baby,  laid  the  cushions  over  it,  and, 
taking  my  hand,  led  me  back  to  my  room. 

"  Now  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep,  Winifred ;  but 
cease  dreaming  about  a  fortune,  and  envy  me 
mine  no  more." 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    STORY. 


I  AM  going  back  in  my  history  of  Lady  de' 
Bougainville  nearly  fifty  years. 

But  before  taking  it  up  at  that  far-away  jxe- 
riod,  so  long  before  I  knew  her,  and  continuing     '^ 
it  down  to  the  time  when  I  did  know  her — 
where  I  have  just  now  let  it  drop — let  me  say 
a  few  words. 

To  give  the  actual  full  details  of  any  human 
life  is  simply  impossible.  History  can  not  do 
it,  nor  biography,  nor  yet  autobiography ;  for, 
even  if  we  wished,  we  could  not  tell  the  exact 
truth  about  ourselves.  Paradoxical  as  it  may 
sound,  I  have  often  thought  that  the  nearest 
approximation  to  absolute  truth  is  fiction ;  be-  ■ 
cause  the  novelist  presents,  not  so  much  literal 
facts,  which  can  be  twisted  and  distorted  to  al- 
most any  shape,  as  the  one  underlying  verity 
of  human  nature.  Thus  Lady  de  Bougainville's 
story,  as  I  have  gradually  gathered  it  from  her- 
self and  others,  afterward  putting  together  all 
the  data  which  came  into  my  hands,  is  given 
by  me  probably  as  near  reality  as  any  one  not 
gifted  with  clairvoyance  could  give  it.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  put  "  the  facts  of  the  case"  with  as 
much  veracity  as  most  historians.  Nor  am  I 
bolder  in  discriminating  motives  and  judging 
actions  than  many  historians,  nay,  than  we  all 
often  assume  to  be,  just  as  if  we  were  omnipres- 
ent and  omniscient,  toward  our  poor  fellow- 
worms. 

But  still,  any  one  with  common-sense  and 
common  perception,  studying  human  nature, 
must  see  that  certain  effects  must  follow  cer- 
tain causes,  and  produce  certain  final  results, 
as  sure  as  that  the  daylight  follows  the  sun. 
Therefore  when  we  writers  make  a  story,  and 
our  readers  speculate  about  it,  and  "wonder 
how  it  will  end,"  we  rather  smile  at  them.  We 
know  that  if  it  is  true  to  human  life  it  can  end 
but  in  one  way — subject  to  various  modifica- 
tions, but  still  only  in  one  way.    Granting  such 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


and  such  premises,  the  result  must  follow,  in- 
exorable as  fate. 

And  so  in  course  of  years  I  arrived  at  Lady 
de  Bougainville's  history  as  accurately  as  if  she 
herself  had  written  it  down :  nay,  more  so,  for 
upon  various  points  of  it  her  tongue  was,  and 
ever  would  have  been,  firmly  sealed,  while  upon 
other  points  circumstances  and  her  own  pecul- 
iar character  made  her  incompetent  to  form  a 
judgment.  But  it  was  easy  enough  to  form  my 
own,  less  from  what  she  related  than  by  what 
she  unwittingly  betrayed,  still  more  by  what  I 
learned — though  not  till  after  she  was  gone — by 
the  one  only  person  who  had  known  her  in  her 
youth,  the  old  Irishwoman,  Bridget  Halloran, 
who  then  lived  a  peaceful  life  of  busy  idleness 
in  Lady  de  Bougainville's  house,  and  afterward 
ended  her  days  as  an  honored  inmate  in  mine. 

Bridget,  as  soon  as  she  knew  me  and  grew 
fond  of  me,  had  no  reserves ;  but  her  mistress 
had  many.  Never  once  did  she  sit  down  to  re- 
late to  me  her  "  history" — people  do  not  do  that 
in  real  life — and  yet  she  was  forever  letting  fall 
facts  and  incidents  which,  put  together,  made 
a  complete  and  continuous  autobiography.  Her 
mind,  ever  dwelling  on  the  past,  and  indifferent 
to,-  or  oblivious  of,  the  present,  had  acquired  a 
vividness  and  minuteness  of  recollection  that 
was  quite  remarkable.  I  never  questioned  her : 
that  was  impossible.  At  the  slightest  indica- 
tion of  impertinent  curiosity  she  would  draw  in 
\  her  horns,  or  retire  at  once  into  her  shell  like 
any  hermit  crab,  and  it  was  difficult  to  lure  her 
out  again.  But  generally,  by  simply  listening 
while  she  talked,  and  putting  this  and  that  to- 
gether by  the  light  of  what  I  knew  of  her  char- 
acter, I  arrived  at  a  vei'y  fair  estimate  of  the 
total  facts,  and  the  motives  which  produced 
them. 

Upon  these  foundations  I  have  built  my 
story.  It  is  no  truer  and  no  falser  than  our 
reproductions  of  human  nature  in  history,  bi- 
ography, and  romance  usually  are,  and  as  such 
I  leave  it.  The  relation  harms  no  one.  And 
it  will  be  something  if  I  can  snatch  out  of  the 
common  oblivion  of  women's  lives — I  mean  wo- 
men who  die  the  last  of  their  race,  "  and  leave 
the  world  no  pattern" — the  strange,  checkered 
life  of  my  dear  Lady  Bougainville. 

And  SO;  to  begin : 

More  than  half  a  century  ago  the  Rev.  Ed- 
ward Scanlan  came  to  be  curate  of  the  parish 
in  the  small  West  of  England  town  of  Dltchley 
St.  Mary's,  commonly  called  Ditchley  only. 

At  that  time  the  Establishment — especially 
as  it  existed  in  the  provinces — was  in  a  very 
different  condition  from  what  it  is  at  present. 
"  Orthodoxy"  meant  each  clergyman  doing  that 
which  was  right  in  his  own  eyes,  as  to  rubric, 
doctrine,  or  clerical  government ;  that  is,  with- 
in certain  limits  of  sleepy  decorum  and  settled 
common  usage.  Beyond  the  pale  of  the  Church 
there  existed  a  vague  dread  of  the  Pope  on  one 
Bide,  and  Dissent  on  the  other;  and  people 
had  a  general  consciousness  that  the  Establish- 


ment alone  was  really  "  respectable"  to  belong 
to ;  but  within  its  boundary  all  went  smoothly 
enough.  Low-Church,  High-Church,  Broad- 
Church,  were  terms  unknown.  There  was  not 
sufficient  earnestness  to  create  schism.  One 
only  section  of  new  thinkers  had  risen  up,  orig- 
inating with  young  Mr.  Simeon  of  Cambridge, 
who  either  called  themselves,  or  were  called, 
"Evangelicals,"  and  spoke  much  about  "the 
gospel,"  which  the  more  ardent  of  them  fan- 
cied that  they  and  they  alone  had  received, 
and  were  commissioned  to  preach.  This  made 
them  a  little  obnoxious  to  their  old-fashioned 
brethren  ;  but  still  they  were  undoubtedly  a  set 
of  very  earnest,  sincere,  and  hard-working  cler- 
gymen, whose  influence  in  the  English,  and  more 
particularly  the  Irish  Church,  was  beginning  to 
be  clearly  felt ;  only  it  did  not  extend  to  such 
remote  parishes  as  that  of  Ditchley. 

The  Ditchley  rector  was  a  clergyman  of  the 
old  school  entirely.  When  still  a  young  man 
he  was  presented  to  the  living  through  family 
influence,  and  had  fulfilled  its  duties  decently, 
if  rather  grudgingly,  his  natural  bias  being  in 
a  contrary  direction,  and  his  natural  disposi- 
tion being  from  this  or  some  other  reason  cor- 
respondingly soured.  He  was  a  man  of  edu- 
cation and  taste;  had  traveled  much  on  the 
Continent  when  he  was  only  a  younger  broth- 
er, and  before  it  was  expected  that  he  would 
have  dropped  in,  as  he  did,  late  in  life,  for  the 
whole  accumulation  of  the  family  property — 
alas !  rather  too  late ;  for  by  that  time  Henry 
Oldham  was  a  confirmed  old  bachelor. 

Since  then  he  had  crept  on  peacefully  to  sep- 
tuagenarianism,  the  last  of  his  race.  He  never 
went  to  live  at  Oldham  Court,  but  let  it  to  stran- 
gers, and  kept  on  his  modest  establishment  at 
the  Rectory,  which  was  a  very  pretty  place,  hav- 
ing once  been  a  monastery,  with  a  beautiful  gar- 
den, in  which  he  greatly  delighted,  and  over 
which  he  was  said  to  spend  extravagant  sums. 
Otherwise  he  lived  carefully,  some  thought  pe- 
nuriously,  but  he  was  charitable  enough  to  the 
poor  of  his  parish ;  and  he  read  prayers  now 
and  then,  and  preached  a  sermon,  fifteen  min- 
utes long,  regularly  once  a  month ;  which  com- 
prised for  him  the  whole  duty  of  a  clergyman. 

I  have  seen  Mr.  Oldham's  portrait,  engraved 
after  his  death  by  the  wish  of  his  parishioners. 
He  is  represented  sitting  at  his  library-table, 
in  gown  and  bands.  His  sermon  lies  before 
him,  and  he  has  the  open  Bible  under  his  right 
hand,  as  in  the  portrait  of  the  Reverend  Sir 
Edward  de  Bougainville.  But  he  is  very  im- 
like  that  admired  individual,  being  a  little  spare 
old  man,  with  a  funny  scratch  wig,  and  a  keen, 
caustic,  though  not  unkindly  expression  ;  more 
like  a  lawyer  than  a  clergyman,  and  more  like 
a  country  gentleman  than  either. 

Except  this  monthly  sermon,  and  his  neces- 
sary charities,  which  were  no  burden  to  him 
— Mr.  Oldham  being,  as  has  been  said,  a  very 
wealthy  man,  though  nobody  knew  the  precise 
amount  of  his  wealth — the  rector  left  all  his 
parish  responsibilities  to  his  curate,  whom  he 


24 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


had  picked  up,  during  one  of  his  rare  absences 
from  home,  soon  after  his  former  assistant  in 
the  duty — a  college  chum  nearly  as  old  as  him- 
self— died. 

How  such  a  strong  contrast  as  the  Reverend 
Edward  Scanlan  ever  succeeded  the  Reverend 
Thomas  Heavisides  was  a  standing  wonder  to 
Ditchley.  He  was  young,  handsome,  and  an 
Irishman,  belonging  to  that  section  of  the 
Irish  Church  which  coincided  with  the  English 
"Evangelicals,"  except  that  in  Ireland  they 
added  politics  to  religion,  and  were  outra- 
geously and  vehemently  "Orange" — a  term  of 
which,  mercifully,  the  present  generation  has 
almost  forgotten  the  meaning. 

Mr.  Scanlan  had  been,  in  his  native  country, 
as  Ditchley  soon  discovered — for  he  had  no 
hesitation  in  betraying  the  fact  —  a  popular 
preacher.  Indeed,  his  principal  piece  of  fur- 
niture in  his  temporary  lodgings  was  his  own 
portrait  in  that  character,  presented  to  him  just 
before  he  left  Dublin — and  he  maintained  the 
credit  of  a  popular  preacher  still.  On  his  very 
first  Sunday  he  took  the  parish  by  storm.  He 
literally  "roused"  the  congregation,  who  were 
accustomed  to  do  nothing  but  sleep  during  the 
sermon.  But  no  one  could  sleep  during  that 
of  the  new  curate.  He  preached  extempore, 
which  of  itself  was  a  startling  novelty,  alarm- 
ing the  old  people  a  little,  but  delighting  the 
younger  ones.  Then  his  delivery  was  so  loud 
and  energetic :  he  beat  the  pulpit  cushion  so 
impressively  with  his  white  ringed  hand ;  and 
his  sentences  rolled  off  with  such  brilliant  flu- 
ency. He  never  paused  a  moment  for  a  word 
— ideas  nobody  asked  for;  and  his  mellifluous 
Irish  accent  sounded  so  original,  so  charming ! 
His  looks  too — his  abundance  of  black  hair  and 
large  blue-black  eyes — Irish  eyes — which  he 
knew  how  to  make  the  very  most  of.  Though 
he  was  short  of  stature  and  rather  stumpy  in 
figure  compared  to  the  well-grown  young  Sax- 
ons about  Ditchley,  still  all  the  Ditchley  ladies 
at  once  pronounced  him  "exceedingly  hand- 
some," and  .disseminated  that  opinion  accord- 
ingly. 

On  the  top  of  it — perhaps  consequent  upon 
it — came,  after  a  Sunday  or  two,  the  further 
opinion,  "  exceedingly  clever."  Certainly  Mr. 
Scanlan's  sermons  were  very  unlike  any  thing 
ever  before  heard  in  Ditchley.  He  seized  upon 
sacred  subjects  in  a  dashing,  familiar  way — 
handled  them  with  easy  composure ;  illustra- 
ted them  with  all  sorts  of  poetical  similes,  tak- 
en from  every  thing  in  heaven  and  earth; 
smothered  them  up  with  flowers  of  imagery — 
so  that  the  original  thought,  if  there  was  any 
at  all,  became  completely  hidden  in  its  multi- 
plicity of  adornments. 

Sometimes,  in  his  extreme  volubility  of 
speech,  Mr.  Scanlan  used  illustrations  whose 
familiarity  almost  approached  the  ludicrous, 
thereby  slightly  scandalizing  the  sober  people 
of  Ditchley.  But  they  soon  forgave  him ; 
when  a  man  talks  so  much  and  so  fast,  he 
must  make  slips  sometimes — and  he  was  so 


pleasant  in  his  manner,  so  meekly  subservient 
to  criticism,  or  so  calmly  indifferent  to  it,  that 
it  soon  died  away ;  more  especially  as  the  rec- 
tor himself  had  the  good  taste  and  good  feeling 
never  to  join  in  any  thing  that  was  said  either 
for  or  against  his  curate.  In  which  example 
he  was  followed  by  the  better  families  of  the 
place  —  stanch  old  Tories,  with  whom  a  cler- 
gyman was  a  clergyman,  and  not  amenable  to 
the  laws  which  regulate  common  men.  They 
declared  that  whoever  Mr.  Oldham  chose  was 
sure  to  be  the  right  person,  and  were  perfectly 
satisfied. 

Mr.  Oldham  was  satisfied  too,  or  at  least 
appeared  so.  He  always  showed  Mr.  Scanlan 
every  possible  politeness,  and  professed  himself 
perfectly  contented  with  hira — as  he  was  with 
most  things  that  saved  himself  from  trouble. 
He  had  had  in  his  youth  a  hard,  in  his  age  an 
easy  life ;  and  if  there  was  one  thing  he  dis- 
liked more  than  another,  it  was  taking  trouble. 
The  Irish  exuberance  of  Mr.  Scanlan  filled  up 
all  gaps,  socially  as  well  as  clerically,  and  lift- 
ed the  whole  weight  of  the  parish  from  the 
old  man's  shoulders.  So,  without  any  foolish 
jealousy,  Mr.  Oldham  allowed  his  charming- 
young  curate  to  carry  all  before  him ;  and 
moreover  gave  him  a  salary  which,  it  was 
whispered,  was  far  more  than  Mr,  Heavisides 
had  ever  received ;  nay,  more  than  was  given 
to  any^mrate  in  the  neighborhood.  But  then 
Mr,  Sca!nlan  was  so  very  superior  a  preacher ; 
and  (alas !  for  the  Ditchley  young  ladies  when 
they  found  it  out)  he  was  already  a  married  man. 

This  last  fact,  when  it  leaked  out,  which  it 
did  not  for  a  week  or  two,  was,  it  must  be 
owned,  a  considerable  blow.  The  value  of  the 
new  curate  decreased  at  once.  But  Ditchley 
was  too  dull  a  place,  and  the  young  Irishman 
too  great  a  novelty,  for  the  reaction  to  be  very 
serious.  So,  after  a  few  cynical  remarks  of  the 
sour-grape  pattern,  as  to  how  very  early  and 
imprudently  he  must  have  married — the  Irish 
always  did — how  difficult  he  would  find  it  to 
keep  a  wife  and  family  on  a  curate's  income, 
and  how  very  inferior  a  person  the  lady  would 
probably  be — Mr.  Scanlan's  star  again  rose,  and 
he  was  generally  accepted  by  the  little  commu- 
nity. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  Irish  are 
unappreciated  in  England — especially  provin- 
cial England.  Often  the  slow,  bovine,  solid 
Briton  is  greatly  taken  by  the  lively-tempered, 
easy,  mercurial  Celt,  who  both  supplies  a  want 
and  creates  an  excitement.  A  gentlemanly, 
clever,  and  attractive  young  Hibernian  will  drop 
suddenly  down  upon  an  old-fashioned  English 
country  town,  amuse  the  men,  captivate  the 
women,  and  end  by  putting  his  bridle  on  the 
neck  of  ever  so  many  of  these  mild,  stolid  ag- 
ricultural animals — leading  them  by  the  nose  k 
completely  for  a  little  while — as  did  the  gen- 
tleman who  had  just  made  his  appearance  in 
Ditchley,  For  weeks  nothing  was  talked  of 
but  the  Reverend  Edward  Scanlan — his  brilliant 
preaching,  his  good  looks,  his  agreeable  man- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


25 


ners.  Every  girl  in  the  town  would  have  been 
in  love  with  him  but  for  that  uncomfortable  im- 
pediment, his  wife.  Great  was  the  speculation 
concerning  her — what  kind  of  person  she  was 
likely  to  be.  Imagination  had  full  time  to  de- 
velop itself:  for  the  curate  occupied  his  lodg- 
ings alone  for  three  months,  during  which  time 
— as  he  confidentially,  and  not  without  much 
anxious  and  husband-like  feeling,  told  the  ma- 
trons of  the  place — Mrs.  Scanlan  was  awaiting 
at  his  mother's  house  in  Dublin  the  birth  of 
their  second  child. 

Then  he  had  a  mother,  and  she  had  a  house ; 
two  facts  which,  in  the  paocity  of  information 
concerning  him,  were  eagerly  seized  upon  and 
discussed  exhaustively.  Indeed  these  conjugal 
confessions  seemed  to  open  to  the  young  man 
all  the  maternal  arms  in  Ditchley — Ditchley 
town,  that  isi  The  county  families  still  hung 
back  a  little,  pausing  till  they  could  discover 
something  certain  about  Mr.  Scanlan's  ante- 
cedents. 

This  was  not  easy.  Fifty  years  ago  London 
itself  was  very  far  off  from  the  West  of  England, 
and  Ireland  seemed  a  teira  incognita^  as  distant 
as  the  antipodes.  Nor,  except  letting  fall  in 
his  conversation  a  good  many  titled  names, 
which  were  recognized  as  belonging  to  the  re- 
ligious aristocracy  of  the  period,  did  Mr.  Scan- 
lan say  much  about  his  family  or  connections. 
He  was  apparently  that  odd  mixture  of  candor 
and  secretiveness  which  is  peculiarly  Celtic — 
Highland  and  Irish.  While  voluble  enough 
concerning  himself  personally,  of  his  wife,  his 
parents,  and  his  relatives  generally — who  could 
not  have  been  numerous,  as  he  was  an  only 
child — he  said  remarkably  little. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  and  a  contradiction  to 
-  certain  amusing  legal  fictions  concerning  the 
conjugal  estate,  that  whatever  a  man  may  be, 
and  however  great  a  personage  theoretically, 
practically  his  social  status  is  decided  by  his 
.wife.  Not  so  mufh  by  her  social  status  or  ori- 
gin, as  by  the  sort  of  woman  she  is  in  herself. 
King  Cophetua  may  woo  the  beggar-maid,  and 
if  she  has  a  queenly  nature  she  will  make  an 
excellent  queen  ;  but  if  he  chooses  a  beggar  in 
royal  robes  they  will  soon  drop  off,  and  the 
•-  ugly  mendicant  appear;  then  King  Cophetua 
may  turn  beggar,  but  she  will  never  make  a 
queen.  And  so,  in  every  rank  of  life,  unless  a 
man  chooses  a  woman  who  is  capable  of  keep- 
ing up  at  home  the  dignity  which  he  labors  for 
in  the  world,  he  will  soon  find  his  own  progress 
in  life  sorely  hampered  and  impeded,  his  use- 
fulness narrowed,  his  honors  thrown  away. 

Mr.  Scanlan  was  no  doubt  a  very  charming 
man — quite  the  gentleman,  every  body  said; 
and  his  tastes  and  habits  were  those  of  a  gen- 
tleman, at  least  of  a  person  who  has  been  well 
off  all  his  life.  Indeed,  he  every  where  gave 
the  impression  of  having  been  brought  up  in 
great  luxury  as  a  child,  with  ponies  to  ride, 
unlimited  shooting  and  fishing,  etc. — the  sort 
of  life  befitting  a  squire's  son  ;  on  the  strength 
of  which,  though  a  clergyman,  he  became  hand 


in  glove  with  all  the  rollicking  squires'  sons 
round  about. 

Ditchley  puzzled  itself  a  little  concerning  his 
name.  Scanlan  did  not  sound  very  aristocrat- 
ic, but  then  English  ears  never  appreciate  Irish 
patronymics.  The  only  time  that  any  one  in 
this  neighborhood  had  ever  seen  it — (the  fact 
was  breathed  about  tenderly,  and  never  reached 
the  curate) — was  upon  a  stray  porter-bottle — 
"Scanlan  and  Co.'s  Dublin  stout" — but  that 
might  have  been  a  mere  coincidence ;  no  doubt 
there  were  many  Scanlans  all  over  Ireland. 
And  even  if  it  were  not  so — if  Mr.  Scanlan  did 
really  belong  to  the  "  stout"  family — what  harm 
was  it  ?  Who  had  not  heard  of  illustrious  brew- 
ers ?  Whitbread  in  England,  Guinness  in  Ire- 
land— were  they  not  names  high  in  honor,  es- 
pecially among  the  religious  world  of  the  day 
— the  Evangelical  set,  which,  however  the  old- 
fashioned,  easy-going  church  people  might  dif- 
fer from  it,  had  undoubtedly  begun  to  work  a 
great  revolution  in  the  Establishment  ? 

Mr.  Scanlan  belonged  to  it,  and  evidently  glo- 
rified himself  much  in  the  fact.  It  was  such 
an  exceedingly  respectable  section  of  the  com- 
munity :  there  were  so  many  titled  and  wealthy 
names  connected  with  it ;  even  a  poor  curate 
might  gather  from  his  alliance  therewith  sec- 
ondary honor.  Nevertheless,  the  county  soci- 
ety, which  was  very  select,  and  not  easily  ap- 
proachable, paused  in  its  judgment  upon  the 
Reverend  Edward  Scanlan  until  it  had  seen 
his  wife.  Then  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
concerning  him. 

I  should  think  not!  I  could  imagine  how 
she  looked  the  first  time  she  appeared  in  pub- 
lic, which  was  at  church,  for  she  arrived  at 
Ditchley  on  a  Saturday — arrived  alone  with 
her  two  babies — both  babies,  for  one  was  just 
fifteen  months  the  elder  of  the  other — and  their 
nurse,  a  thorough  Irishwoman,  very  young,  very 
untidy,  very  faithful,  and  very  ugly.  Well  could 
I  picture  the  curate's  wife  as  she  walked  up  the 
aisle — though  perhaps  her  beauty  would  at  first 
be  hardly  perceptible  to  these  good  Ditchley 
people,  accustomed  to  fair  Saxon  complexions, 
plump  figures,  and  cheeks  rosy  and  round, 
whereas  hers  were  pale  and  thin,  and  her 
eyes  dark,  with  heavy  circles  underneath  them. 
Besides,  she  was  very  tall,  and  slender  almost 
to  tenuity ;  and  her  early  maternity,  combined 
with  other  cares,  had  taken  from  her  the  first 
fresh  bloom  of  youth.  At  nineteen  she  looked 
rather  older  than  her  husband,  though  he  was 
her  senior  by  some  years.  "What  a  pity!" 
Ditchley  said,  in  its  comments  upon  her  that 
Sunday;  "why  will  Irishwomen  marry  so 
young  ?" — until  they  found  out  she  was  not  an 
Irishwoman  at  all. 

What  she  was,  or  where  she  came  from,  they 
had  at  first  no  means  of  guessing.  She  spoke 
English  perfectly.  Nevertheless,  as  the  ladies 
who  called  upon  her  during  the  ensuing  week 
detected,  she  had  certainly  some  sort  of  for- 
eign accent ;  but  whether  French,  German,  or 
Spanish,  the  untraveled  natives  of  Ditchley  were 


26 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


quite  unable  to  discover.  And  even  the  bold- 
est and  most  inquisitive  of  them  found — I  can 
well  believe  it ! — a  certain  difficulty  in  putting 
intrusive  questions,  or  indeed  questions  of  any 
kind,  to  Mrs.  Scanlan.  They  talked  about  her 
babies,  of  whom  she  seemed  irrationally  proud ; 
about  her  husband,  to  whose  praises  she  list- 
ened with  a  sweet,  calm,  appreciative  smile ; 
and  then  they  went  away,  having  found  out 
about  her  just  as  much  as  they  knew  the  week 
before — viz.,  that  she  was  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

Nevertheless  she  burst  upon  Ditchley  like  a 
revelation  ;  this  beautiful,  well-bred  young  wo- 
man, who,  though  only  the  curate's  wife,  living 
in  very  common  furnished  lodgings,  seemed 
fully  the  equal  of  every  lady  who  called  upon 
her.  Yet  she  made  nobody  uncomfortable. 
Those  who  came  to  patronize  forgot  to  do  it, 
that  was  all ;  while  the  poorer  and  humbler 
ones,  who,  from  her  looks  at  church,  had  been 
at  first  a  little  afraid  of  her — doubting  she 
would  be  "stand-offish"  and  disagreeable  — 
'found  her  so  pleasant  that  they  were  soon  quite 
at  their  ease,  and  went  away  to  trumpet  her 
praises  far  and  near. 

While  she — how  did  she  receive  this  praise, 
blame,  or  criticism?  Nobody  could  find  out. 
She  had  all  the  simplicity  and  naturalness  of 
one  who  takes  no  trouble  to  assert  a  position 
which  she  has  had  all  her  life ;  is  quite  indif- 
ferent to  outside  shows  of  wealth  or  conse- 
quence, possessing  that  within  which  is  inde- 
pendent of  either;  easily  accessible  to  all  com- 
ers ;  considerii^fe  neither  "  What  do  other  peo- 
ple think  of  you  ?"  nor  "  I  wonder  what  you  are 
now  thinking  of  me  ?"  but  welcoming  each  and 
all  with  the  calm,  gentle  graciousness  of  a  lady 
who  has  been,  to  use  the  current  phrase,  "thor- 
oughly accustomed  to  good  society." 

Such  was  the  wife  whom,  much  to  their  sur- 
prise after  all — for  in  none  of  their  speculations 
had  they  quite  reckoned  upon  sych  a  woma^ 
— the  new  curate  introduced  to  the  parish  of 
Ditchley. 

She  settled  his  status  there,  at  once  and  per- 
manently. Nay,  she  did  more,  for,  with  her 
dignified  candor,  she  explained  at  once  the 
facts  which  he  had  hitherto  kept  concealed; 
not  upon  her  neighbors'  first  visit,  but  as  soon 
as  she  grew  at  all  into  friendliness  with  them, 
even  expressing  some  surprise  that  neither  Mr. 
Scanlan  nor  Mr,  Oldham — ^who  treated  her  with 
great  respect,  and  even  had  a  dinner-party  at 
the  Rectory  in  her  honor — should  have  made 
public  the  very  simple  facts  of  the  Scanlan  fam- 
ily history.  Her  Edward's  father  was  a  wealthy 
Dublin  brewer — the  identical "  Scanlan  and  Co. " 
— who  had  brought  his  son  up  to  the  Church, 
and  was  just  on  the  point  of  buying  him  a  liv- 
ing when  some  sudden  collapse  in  trade  came, 
the  firm  failed,  the  old  man  died  penniless, 
leaving  his  old  wife  with  only  her  own  small 
income  to  live  upon,  while  the  son  was  driven 
to  maintain  himself  as  best  he  could.  Though 
he  was  a  popular  preacher,  and  very  much  sought 
afte**,  still  admiration  brought  no  pounds,  shil- 


lings, and  pence ;  his  fine  friends  slipped  from 
him;  no  hope  of  preferment  ofi'ered  itself  in 
Ireland.  At  which  conjuncture  he  met  Mr. 
Oldham,  made  friends  with  him,  and  accepted 
a  fat  curacy  in  the  land  of  the  Saxons. 

This  was  the  whole — a  very  plain  statement, 
involving  no  mystery  of  any  kind.  Nor  con- 
cerning herself  was  there  aught  to  disguise. 
When  her  peculiar  accent,  and  certain  foreign 
ways  she  had,  excited  a  few  harmless  wonder- 
ings,  Mrs.  Scanlan  satisfied  them  all  ii;  the 
briefest  but  most  unhesitating  way,  telling  how 
she  was  of  French  extraction,  her  parents  be- 
ing both  of  an  old  Huguenot  family,  belonging 
to  the  ancienne  noblesse.  This  latter  fact  she 
did  not  exactly  state  until  her  visitors  noticed 
a  coronet  on  an  old  pocket-handkerchief;  and 
then  she  answered,  quite  composedly,  that  her 
late  father,  a  teacher  in  Dublin,  and  very  poor, 
was  the  Vicomte  de  Bougainville. 

Here  at  once  I  give  the  clew  to  any  small  se- 
cret which  may  hitherto  have  thrown  dust  in 
the  reader's  eyes,  but  I  shall  attempt  this  no 
more.  It  must  be  quite  clear  to  all  persons  of 
common  penetration  who  was  the  lady  I  am 
describing. 

Mademoiselle  Josephine  de  Bougainville  was 
the  only  child  of  her  parents,  who  had  met  and 
married  late  in  life,  both  being  poor  imigreshQ- 
longing  to  the  same  family,  driven  from  France 
by  the  first  Revolution.  "The  mother  wa^  al- 
ready dead  when  Josephine  was  given,  at  the 
early  age  of  sixteen,  to  Edward  Scanlan.  I 
think,  in  spite  of  many  presumptions  to  the 
contrary,  that  undoubtedly  she  married  him 
from  love,  as  he  her.  Perhaps,  considering 
her  extreme  youth  and  her  French  bringing 
up,  it  was  not  exactly  the  right  sort  of  love — 
not  the  love  which  we  like  to  see  our  English 
daughters  marry  with,  quite  independent  of  the 
desire  of  parents  or  friends,  trusting  to  no  in- 
fluence but  that  of  their  own  honest  hearts ; 
but  still  it  was  love,  and  Edward  Scanlan,  a 
good-looking,  ardent,  impulsive  young  fellow, 
was  just  the  sort  of  lover  that  would  be  attract- 
ive to  sweet  sixteen.  I  believe  he  fell  in  love 
with  her  at  church,  violently  and  desperately ; 
and  his  parents,  who  never  said  him  nay  in  any 
thing,  and  who  had  the  shrewdness  to  see  that 
her  beauty  and  her  good  birth  formed  an  excel- 
lent balance  to  the  Scanlan  money — nay,  would 
be  rather  an  advantage  to  the  same — instead  of 
resisting,  encouraged  the  marriage.  They  ap- 
plied to  M.  de  Bougainville  for  his  daughter's 
hand,  and  the  poor  old  Vicomte,  starving  in  his 
garret,  was  glad  enough  to  bestow  it — to  see  his 
child  safe  settled  in  a  home  of  her  own,  and  die. 

He  might  have  used  some  persuasion;  she 
might  have  thought,  French  fashion,  that  it  was 
right  to  marry  whomsoever  her  father  wished, 
and  so  bent  her  will  cheerfully  to  his.  But  I 
am  sure  she  did  not  marry  against  her  will, 
from  the  simple  fact  that,  to  a  nature  like  hers, 
a  marriage  without  love,  or  for  any  thing  ex- 
cept love,  would  have  been,  at  any  age,  alto-t 
gether  impossible.     Besides,  I  have  stronger 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


27 


'THIS  QUIET  HOUB  MBS.  80AMLAN  DEVOTED  TO  WBITINO  ▲  J01TBNAL. 


evidence  still.  Once,  in  discussing,  with  re- 
gard to  myself,  this  momentous  question,  Lady 
de  Bougainville  said  to  me,  very  solemnly — so 
solemnly  that  I  never  forgot  her  words : 

"Remember,  Winifred,  love  alone  is  not  suf- 
ficient in  marriage.  But,  wanting  love,  nothing 
else  suffices — no  outward  suitability,  no  tie  of 
gratitude  or  duty.  All  break  like  threads  be- 
fore the  wrench  of  the  ever-grinding  Avheel  of 
daily  cares.  I  had  a  difficult  married  life,  my 
dear,  but  it  would  have  been  ten  times  more 
so  if,  when  I  married,  I  had  not  loved  my  hus- 
band." 

I  find  that  instead  of  telling  a  consecutive 
story,  I  am  mixing  up  confusedly  the  near  and 
the  far  away.  But  it  is  nearly  impossible  to 
avoid  this.  Many  things,  obviously,  I  have  to 
guess  at.  Given  the  two  ends  of  a  fact  I  must 
imagine  the  middle;  but  I  shall  imagine  as 
little  as  ever  I  can.  And  I  have  two  clews  to 
guide  me  through  the  labyrinth — clews  which 
have  never  failed  through  all  those  years. 

Every  Saturday  night,  when  her  children  were 
in  bed,  her  week's  duties  done,  and  her  hus- 
band arranging  his  sermon,  a  task  he  always 
put  off  till  the  last  minute,  sitting  up  late  to 
do  it — and  she  never  went  to  bed  until  he  was 
gone,  and  she  coyld  shut  up  the  house  herself 
— this  quiet  hour  Mrs.  Scanlan  always  devoted 
to  writing  a  journal.  It  was  in  French,  not 
English;  and  very  brief:  a  record  of  facts, 
not  feelings;  events,  not  moralizings:  but  it 
was  kept  with  great  preciseness  and  accuracy. 
And,   being   in  French,  was   private;    since, 


strange  to  say,  her  husband  had  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  learn  the  language. 

Secondly,  Lady  de  Bougainville  had  one  cu- 
rious superstition:  she  disliked  burning  even 
the  smallest  scrap  of  paper.  Every  letter  she 
had  ever  received  she  kept  arranged  in  order, 
and  ticketed  with  its  date  of  receipt  and  the 
writer's  name.  Thus,  had  she  been  a  celebra- 
ted personage,  cursed  with  a  biographer,  the 
said  biographer  would  have  had  no  trouble  at 
all  in  arranging  his  data  and  gathering  out  of 
them  every  possible  evidence,  except  perhaps 
the  truth,  which  lies  deeper  than  any  external 
facts.  Many  a  time  I  laughed  at  her  for  this 
peculiarity  of  hers;  many  a  time  I  declared 
that  were  I  a  notable  person  I  would  take  care 
to  give  those  who  came  after  me  as  much  trou- 
ble as  possible :  instituting  such  periodical  in- 
cremations as  would  leave  the  chronicler  of  my 
life  with  no  data  to  traffic  upon,  but  keep  him 
in  a  state  of  wholesome  bewilderment  concern- 
ing me.  At  which  Lady  de  Bougainville  only 
smiled,  saying,  "  What  does  it  matter  ?  Why 
need  you  care  ?" 

It  may  be  so.  As  we  decline  toward  our 
end,  the  projected  glory  and  peace  of  the  life 
to  come  may  throw  into  dimness  all  this  present 
life  :  we  may  become  indifferent  to  all  that  has 
happened  to  us,  and  all  that  people  may  say 
and  think  of  us  after  we  are  gone.  She  did, 
I  know.  And  I  might  feel  the  same  myself, 
if  I  had  no  children. 

Those  two  children  of  hers,  the  little  girl  and 
boy,  were  enough  of  themselves  to  make  life 


28 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


begin  brightly  for  yonng  Mrs.  Scanlan,  even  in 
the  dull  town  of  Ditchley.  And  it  was  the 
bright  time  of  year,  when  Ditchley  itself  caught 
the  reflected  glow  of  the  lovely  country  around 
it — rich,  West  of  England  country ;  wide,  green, 
heaving  pasture-lands,  and  lanes  full  of  spring 
flowers.  The  first  time  her  little  Cesar  came 
home  with  his  chubby  hands  holding,  or  rather 
dropping,  a  mass  of  broken  blue  hyacinths,  his 
mother  snatched  him  in  her  arms  and  smoth- 
ered him  with  kisses.  She  felt  as  if  her  own 
childhood  were  come  over  again  in  that  of  her 
children. 

Besides,  the  sudden  collapse  of  fortune,  which 
had  brought  so  many  changes,  brought  one  bless- 
ing, which  was  a  very  great  one  to  Josephine 
Scanlan.  Hitherto  the  young  couple  had  nev- 
er had  a  separate  home.  The  old  couple,  con- 
sidering— perhaps  not  unwisely — that  the  wife 
was  so  young  and  the  husband  so  thoughtless, 
and  that  they  themselves  had  no  other  children, 
brought  them  home  to  live  with  them  in  their 
grand  house ;  which  combined  establishment 
had  lasted  until  the  crash  came. 

It  could  scarcely  have  been  a  life  altogether 
to  Josephine's  taste ;  though  I  believe  her  fa- 
ther and  mother-in-law  were  very  worthy  peo- 
ple—  quite  uneducated,  having  "made  them- 
selves," but  gentle,  kind,  and  good.  If  ever 
she  did  speak  of  them  it  was  always  with  ten- 
derness. Still,  to  the  poor  Emigres'  daughter, 
brought  up  in  all  the  traditions  of  "  blue  blood ;" 
taught  to  take  as  her  standard  of  moral  excel- 
lence the  chivalry  which  holds  honor  as  the 
highest  good,  and  socially,  to  follow  that  per- 
fect simplicity  which  indicates  the  truest  refine- 
ment— to  such  a  one  there  must  always  have 
been  something  jarring  in  the  rude,  lavish  lux- 
ury of  these  noiweaux  riches,  who,  being  able  to 
get  any  thing  through  their  money,  naturally 
concluded  that  money  was  every  thing.  Though 
her  fetters  were  golden,  still,  fetters  they  were : 
and  though  she  must  have  worn  them  with  a 
smiling,  girlish  grace — she  was  so  much  of  a 
child,  in  years  and  in  character — yet  I  have  no 
doubt  she  felt  them  sometimes.  When,  all  in 
a  day,  they  dropped  ofi"  like  spiders'  webs,  I  am 
afraid  young  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  not  near  so  un- 
happy as  she  ought  to  have  been;  nay,  was 
conscious  of  a  certain  sense  of  relief  and  ex- 
hilaration of  spirits.  It  was  like  passing  out 
of  a  hot-house  into  the  free  pure  air  outside ; 
and,  though  chilling  at  first,  the  change  was 
wonderfully  strengthening  and  refreshing. 

The  very  first  shock  of  it  had  nerved  the  shy, 
quiet  girl  into  a  bright,  brave,  active  woman, 
ready  to  do  all  that  was  required  of  her,  and 
more;  complaining  of  nothing,  and  afraid  of 
nothing.  Calmly  she  had  lived  on  with  her 
mother-'in- law,  amidst  the  mockeries  of  depart- 
ed wealth,  till  the  house  and  furniture  at  Merri- 
on  Square  could  be  sold ;  as  calmly,  in  a  little 
lodging  at  Kingstown,  had  she  waited  the  birth 
of  her  second  child  ;  and  then,  with  equal  fear- 
lessness, had  traveled  from  Ireland  with  the 
children  and  Bridget,  alone  and  unprotected, 


though  it  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
ever  done  such  a  thing.  But  she  did  it  thank- 
fully and  happily;  and  she  was  happy  and 
thankful  now. 

True,  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Scanlan  felt  at 
first  the  full  weight  of  their  changed  fortunes. 
The  grand  sweep  of  every  thing  had  not  been 
so  complete,  or  else  it  had  been  managed  so 
ingeniously — as  wide-awake  people  can  manage 
these  little  affairs — as  to  leave  them  out  of  the 
wreck  a  good  many  personal  luxuries.  By  the 
time  the  picturesque  little  cottage — which,  be- 
ing on  the  rector's  land,  he  had  put  into  good 
repair  and  recommended  as  a  suitable  habita- 
tion for  his  curate — was  ready,  there  arrived 
by  sea,  from  Dublin,  quite  enough  of  furniture 
— the  remnant  of  old  splendors — to  make  it  very 
comfortable ;  nay,  almost  every  lady,  in  paying 
the  first  call  upon  Mrs.  Scanlan  at  Wren's  Nest, 
said,  admiringly,  "  What  a  pretty  home  you 
have  got!" 

Then  when  Mrs.  Scanlan  returned  the  visits, 
and,  the  term  of  mourning  for  her  parents- 
in-law  having  expired,  accepted  a  few  invita- 
tions round  about,  she  did  so  in  clothes  which, 
if  a  little  unfashionable  in  Dublin,  were  re- 
garded as  quite  modern  in  Ditchley ;  garments 
so  handsome,  so  well  arranged,  and  so  grace- 
fully put  on  that  some  of  his  confidential  ma- 
tron friends  said  to  Mr.  Scanlan,  "  How  charm- 
ingly your  wife  dresses!  Any  one  could  see 
she  was  a  Frenchwoman  by  the  perfection  of 
her  toilet."  At  which  Mr.  Scanlan  was,  of 
course,  excessively  delighted,  and  admired  his 
beautiful  wife  more  than  ever  because  other 
people  admired  her  so  much. 

He,  too,  was  exceedingly  "jolly"^only  that 
word  had  not  then  got  ingrafted  in  the  English 
language — in  spite  of  his  loss  of  fortune.  The 
result  of  it  did  not  as  yet  afffect  him  personally ; 
none  of  his  comforts  were  curtailed  to  any  great 
extent.  "  Roughing  it"  in  lodgings,  with  every 
good  house  in  the  parish  open  to  him  whenever 
he  chose  to  avail  himself  of  the  hospitality,  had 
been  not  such  a  very  hard  thing.  Nor  was 
"love  in  a  cottage,"  in  summer-time,  with  roses 
and  jasmines  clustering  about  the  door,  and  ev- 
ery body  who  entered  it  praising  the  taste  and 
skill  of  his  wife,  within  and  without  the  house, 
and  saying  how  they  envied  such  a  scene  of 
rural  felicity,  by  any  means  an  unpleasant 
thing. 

In  truth,  the  curate  sometimes  scarcely  be- 
lieved he  was  a  poor  man  at  all,  or  in  anywise. 
diff"erent  from  the  Edward  Scanlan  with  whom 
every  thing  had  gone  so  smoothly  since  his  cra- 
dle, for  his  parents  having  married  late  in  life 
had  their  struggle  over  before  he  was  born. 
He  still  dressed  with  his  accustomed  taste — a 
little  florid,  perhaps,  but  not  bad  taste ;  he  had 
always  money  in  his  pocket,  which  he  could 
spend  or  give  away,  and  he  was  equally  fond 
of  doing  both.  He  had  not,  naturally,  the 
slightest  sense  of  the  individual  or  relative 
value  of  either  sovereigns  or  shillings,  no  more 
than  if  they  had  been  dead  leaves.     This  pe- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


29 


culiarity  had  mattered  little  once,  when  he  was 
a  rich  young  fellow ;  now,  when  it  did  matter, 
it  was  difficult  to  conquer. 

His  mother  had  said  to  Josephine  on  parting 
— almost  the  last  thing  she  did  say,  for  the  old 
woman  died  within  the  year — "Take  care  of 
poor  Edward,  and  look  after  the  money  your- 
self, my  dear,  or  it  '11  bum  a  hole  in  his  pockets 
— it  always  did."  And  Josephine  had  laughed 
at  the  phrase  with  an  almost  childish  amuse- 
ment and  total  ignorance  of  what  it  meant  and 
implied.    She  understood  it  too  well  afterward. 

But  not  now.  Not  in  the  least  during  that 
first  sunshiny  summer,  which  made  Ditchley  so 
pleasant  and  dear  to  her  that  the  charm  lasted 
through  many  and  many  a  sunless  summer  and 
dreary  winter.  Her  husband  she  had  all  to 
herself,  for  the  first  time ;  he  was  so  fond  of 
her,  so  kind  to  her;  she  went  about  with  him 
more  than  she  had  ever  been  able  to  do  since 
her  marriage;  taking  rambles  to  explore  the 
country,  paying  amusing  first  visits  together  to 
investigate  and  criticise  the  Ditchley  society ; 
receiving  as  much  attention  as  if  they  were  a 
new  married  couple ;  and  even  as  to  themselves, 
having  as  it  were  their  honey-moon  over  again, 
only  a  great  deal  more  gay  and  more  comfort- 
able. It  was  indeed  a  very  happy  life  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

As  for  the  babies,  they  were  in  an  earthly 
paradise.  Wren's  Nest  was  built  among  the 
furze-bush«s  of  a  high  common,  as  a  wren's 
nest  should  be ;  and  the  breezes  that  swept 
over  were  so  fresh  and  pure  that  the  two  little 
delicate  faces  soon  began  to  grow  brown  with 
health — Cesar's  especially.  The  infant,  Adri- 
enne,  had  always  been  a  small  fragile  thing. 
But  Cesar  grew  daily  into  a  real  boy,  big, 
hearty,  and  strong;  and  Bridget  showed  him 
off  wherever  she  went  as  one  of  the  finest  chil- 
dren of  the  neighborhood. 

Thus  time  went  on,  marching  upon  flowers ; 
still  he  did  march,  steadily,  remorselessly.  But 
it  was  not  till  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  a  long 
succession  of  wet  days  and  weeks  made  Wren's 
Nest  look — as  a  wren's  nest  might  be  expected 
to  look  in  wintry  weather — that  the  Scanlans 
woke  up  to  the  recollection  that  they  were  act- 
ually "poor"  people. 


CHAPTER  II. 


What  are  ' '  poor"  people — such  as  I  have  just 
stated  the  curate  of  Ditchley  and  his  wife  to  be  ? 

Few  questions  can  be  more  difficult  to  an- 
swer. "  Poor"  is  an  adjective  of  variable  value. 
I  compassionate  my  next  neighbor  as  a  "poor" 
woman,  because  she  lives  in  a  small  tumble- 
down cottage  at  the  end  of  my  garden,  and  has 
nine  children,  and  a  sick  husband.  While  my 
next  neighbor  but  one,  who  drives  about  in  her 
carriage  and  pair,  no  doubt  compassionates  me, 
because  in  all  weathers  I  have  to  go  on  foot. 
Often  when  she  sweeps  past  me,  trudging  along 
our  muddy  lanes,  and  we  bow  and  smile,  I  can 


detect  a  lurking  something,  half  pity — half — no, 
she  is  too  kind  for  scorn ! — in  her  face,  which 
exceedingly  amuses  me.  For  I  know  that  if 
her  carriage  meets  the  little  chaise  and  ponies, 
driven  by  the  lovely  Countess  whose  seat  is  four 
miles  off,  the  said  Countess  will  be  greatly  en- 
vied by  my  wealthy  neighbor,  whose  husband 
has  only  one  handsome  house  to  live  in,  while 
the  Earl  has  six. 

Thus,  you  see,  "poor''  is  a  mere  adjective  of 
comparison. 

But  when  I  call  the  Scanlans  * '  poor, "  it  was  be- 
cause their  income  was  not  equal  to  their  almost 
inevitable  expenditure.  Theirs  was  the  sharpest 
form  of  poverty,  which  dare  not  show  itself  as 
such ;  which  has,  or  thinkg  it  has,  a  certain  posi- 
tion to  keep  up,  and  therefore  must  continually 
sacrifice  inside  comforts  to  outside  shows.  How 
far  this  is  necessary  or  right  remains  an  open 
question — I  have  my  own  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  one  thing  is  certain,  that  a  curate, 
obliged  to  appear  as  a  gentleman,  and  mix  free- , 
ly  in  other  gentlemen's  society — to  say  nothing 
of  his  having,  unfortunately,  the  tastes  and  ne- 
cessities of  a  gentleman — is  in  a  much  harder 
position  than  any  artisan,  clerk,  or  small  shop- 
keeper who  has  the  same  number  of  pounds  a 
year  to  live  upon.  Especially  when  both  have 
the  same  ever-increasing  family,  only  a  rather 
different  sort  of  family,  to  bring  up  upon  it. 

When  Mr.  Scanlan 's  stock  of  ready-money — 
that  "  running  account"  in  the  Ditchley  bank, 
which  he  had  thought  so  inexhaustible,  but 
which  ran  away  as  fast  as  a  centipede  before 
the  year  was  out — when  this  sum  was  nearly  at 
an  end,  the  young  husband  opened  his  eyes 
wide,  with  a  kind  of  angry  astonishment.  His 
first  thought  was,  that  his  wife  had  been  spend- 
ing money  a  great  deal  too  fast.  This  was  pos- 
sible, seeing  she  was  still  but  a  novice  in  house- 
keeping, and  besides  she  really  did  not  know 
how  much  she  had  to  keep  house  upon.  For 
her  husband,  proud  of  his  novel  dignity  as  mas- 
ter of  a  family,  had  desired  her  to  "  leave  every 
thing  to  him — just  ask  him  for  what  she  want- 
ed, and  he  would  always  give  it  to  her :  a  man 
should  always  be  left  to  manage  his  own  af- 
fairs." And  Josephine,  dutifully  believing  this, 
had  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  her  mother-in- 
law's  caution,  thinking  how  much  better  a  wife 
knew  her  husband  than  his  own  parents  ever 
did,  and  cheerfully  assented.  Consequently, 
she  made  not  a  single  inquiry  as  to  how  their 
money  stood,  until  there  was  no  money  left  to 
inquire  after. 

This  happened  on  a  certain  damp  November 
day — she  long  remembered  the  sort  of  day  it 
was,  and  the  minutise  of  all  tliat  happened  on 
it ;  for  it  was  the  first  slight  lifting  up  of  that 
golden  haze  of  happiness — the  first  opening  of 
her  eyes  unto  the  cold,  cheerless  land  that  she 
was  entering;  the  land  where  girlish  dreams 
and  ideal  fancies  are  not,  and  all  pleasures  that 
exist  therein,  if  existing  at  all,  must  be  taken 
after  a  different  fashion,  and  enjoyed  in  a  dif- 
ferent sort  of  -jyay. 


30 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


Mr.  Scanlan  had  gone  into  Ditchley  in  the 
forenoon,  and  his  wife  had  been  busy  making 
all  sorts  of  domestic  arrangements  for  a  change 
that  would  rather  increase  than  diminish  the 
family  expenditure,  and  holding  a  long  con- 
sultation with  her  one  servant  as  to  a  little  plan 
she  had,  which  would  lighten  both  their  hands, 
and  indieed  seemed,  with  present  prospects,  al- 
most a  necessity. 

For,  hard-working  woman  as  Bridget  was — 
and  when  there  is  found  an  industrious,  con- 
scientious, tidy  Irishwoman,  how  she  will  work ! 
with  all  her  heart  in  it  too — still  Wren's  Nest 
in  winter  and  Wren's  Nest  in  summer  were  two 
very  different  abodes.  You  can  not  keep  a 
little  cottage  as  warm  as  a  good-sized  house,  or 
as  neat  either,  especially  when  the  said  little 
cottage  has  two  little  people  in  it  just  of  the  age 
when  rich  parents  find  it  convenient  to  exile 
their  children  to  safe  nurseries  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  to  be  "out  of  the  way."  Wren's 
Nest,  quite  large  enough  when  Cesar  and  Adri- 
enne  were  out  on  the  common  from  morning 
till  night,  became  small  when  the  poor  little 
things  had  to  be  shut  up  in  it  all  day  long. 
Their  voices  —  not  always  sweet — sometimes 
rang  through  it  in  a  manner  that  even  their 
mother  found  rather  trying.  As  to  their  fa- 
ther— but  Mrs,  Scanlan  had  already  began  to 
guess  at  one  fact,  which  all  young  married  wo- 
men have  to  discover — that  the  more  little  chil- 
dren arc  kept  out  of  their  father's  way  the  bet- 
ter for  all  parties. 

Moreover,  Josephine's  husband  still  enjoyed 
his  wife's  company  far  too  well  not  to  grumble 
a  little  when  she  stinted  him  of  it  for  the  sake 
of  her  babies.  He  excessively  disliked  the  idea 
of  her  becoming  "a  family  woman,"  as  he  called 
it,  swallowed  up  in  domestic  cares.  Why  not 
leave  all  that  to  the  servants  ?  He  still  said 
*'  servants,"  forgetting  that  there  was  now  but 
one.  Often,  to  please  him — it  was  so  sweet  to 
please  him  always ! — Mrs.  Scanlan  would  resign 
many  a  necessary  duty,  or  arrange  her  duties 
so  that  she  could  sit  with  him  alone  in  the  par- 
lor, listening  while  he  talked  or  read — listening 
with  one  ear,  while  the  other  was  kept  open  to 
the  sounds  in  the  kitchen,  where  Bridget  might 
be  faintly  heard,  going  about  her  work  and 
crooning  the  while  some  Irish  ditty,  keeping 
baby  on  one  arm  while  she  did  as  much  as  she 
could  of  the  household  work  with  the  other. 

Poor  Bridget!  With  all  her  good-will,  of 
course,  under  such  circumstances,  things  were 
not  done  as  well  as  they  ought  to  have  been, 
nor  were  the  children  taken  such  care  of  as 
their  anxious  mother  thought  right.  When 
there  was  a  third  child  impending  some  addi- 
tional household  help  became  indispensable, 
and  it  was  on  this  subject  that  she  and  Bridget 
were  laying  their  heads  together — very  different 
heads,  certainly,  though  the  two  young  women 
— mistress  and  maid,  were  nearly  the  same  age. 
Let  me  pause  for  a  moment  to  draw  Bridget 
Halloran's  portrait — lovingly,  for  she  was  a  great 
friend  of  mine. 


She  was  very  ugly,  almost  the  ugliest  woman 
I  ever  knew ;  and  she  must  have  been  just  the 
same  in  youth  as  in  age,  probably  uglier,  for 
time  might  by  then  have  ironed  out  some  of  the 
small-pox  seams  which  contributed  not  a  little 
to  the  general  disfigurement  of  her  features. 
True,  she  never  could  have  had  much  features 
to  boast  of,  hers  being  the  commonest  type  of 
Irish  faces,  flat,  broad,  round  as  an  apple-dump- 
ling, with  a  complexion  of  the  dumpling  hue 
and  soddenness.  There  was  a  small  dough-  ' 
pinch  for  the  nose,  a  wide  slit  for  the  mouth, 
two  beady  black-currants  of  eyes — and  you  had 
Bridget  Halloran's  face  complete.  Her  figure 
was  short  and  sturdy,  capable  of  infinite  exer- 
tion and  endurance ;  but  as  for  grace  and  beau- 
ty, not  even  in  her  teens  did  it  possess  one  sin- 
gle line.  Her  sole  charm  was  that  peculiarly 
Hibernian  one — a  great  mass  of  very  fine  blue- 
black  hair,  which  she  hid  under  a  cap,  and  no- 
body ever  saw  it. 

But  Nature,  which  had  been  so  niggardly  to 
this  poor  woman  in  outward  things,  compen- 
sated for  it  by  putting  into  her  the  brightest, 
bravest,  truest,  peasant  nature — the  nature  of 
the  Irish  peasant  who,  being  blessed  with  a 
double  share  of  both  heart  and  brains,  is  capa- 
ble alike  of  any  thing  good  and  any  thing  bad. 
Bridget,  no  doubt,  had  her  own  capacities  for 
the  latter,  but  they  had  remained  undeveloped ; 
while  all  the  good  in  her  had  grown,  month  by 
month,  and  day  by  day,  ever  since,  at  little 
Cesar's  birth,  she  came  as  nurse-maid  into  the 
service  of  young  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

To  her  mistress  she  attached  herself  at  once 
with  the  passionate  admiration  that  ugliness 
sometimes  conceives  for  beauty,  coarseness  for 
grace  and  refinement.  And,  they  being  thrown 
much  together,  as  mothers  and  nurse-maids 
are,  or  ought  to  be,  this  admiration  settled  into 
the  most  faithful  devotion  that  is  possible  to 
human  nature.  At  any  time,  I  think,  Bridget 
would  composedly  have  gone  to  be  hanged  for 
the  sake  of  her  mistress ;  or  rather,  dying  be- 
ing a  small  thing  to  some  people,  I  think  she 
would  have  committed  for  her  sake  any  crime 
that  necessitated  hanging.  Which  is  still  not 
saying  much,  as  Efridget's  sole  consciousness  of, 
and  distinction  between,  right  and  wrong  was, 
whether  or  not  Mrs.  Scanlan  considered  it  so. 

But  I  have  said  enough  to'  indicate  what 
sort  of  person  this  Irish  girl  was,  and  explain 
why  the  other  girl — still  no  m^re  than  a  girl  in 
years,  though  she  was  mistress  and  mother — 
held  toward  her  a  rather  closer  relation  than 
most  ladies  do  with  their  servants  nowadays. 
Partly,  because  Bridget  was  of  Irish,  and  Mrs. 
Scanlan  of  French  birth,  and  in  both  countries 
the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  people  makes  the  tie 
between  the  server  and  the  served  a  little  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  is  in  England.  Also,  be- 
cause the  enormous  gulf  externally  between 
Josephine  Scanlan  n€e  De  Bougainville,  and 
Bridget  Halloran,  nobody's  daughter  (being  tak- 
en from  a  foundling  hospital),  was  crossed  easi- 
er than  many  lesser  distances,  especially  by  that 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


31 


slender,  firm,  almost  invisible,  but  indestructi- 
ble bond  of  a  common  nature — a  nature  wholly 
womanly.  They  understood  one  another,  these 
two,  almost  without  a  word,  on  the  simple 
ground  of  womanhood. 

They  were  discussing  anxiously  the  many, 
and  to  them  momentous  arrangements  for  the 
winter,  or  rather  early  spring — the  new-comer 
being  expected  with  the  violets — but  both  serv- 
ant and  mistress  had  quite  agreed  on  the  neces- 
sity of  a  little  twelve-year-old  nurse-maid,  and 
had  even  decided  on  the  village  school  girl 
whom  they  thought  most  suitable  for  the  office. 
And  then  Bridget,  seeing  her  mistress  look  ex- 
cessively tired  with  all  her  morning's  exer- 
tions, took  the  children  away  into  the  kitchen, 
and  made  their  mother  lie  down  on  the  sofa 
underneath  the  window,  where  she  could  see 
the  line  of  road  across  the  common,  and  watch 
for  Mr.  Scanlan's  return  home. 

She  was  tired,  certainly;  weary  with  the 
sacred  weakness,  mental  and  bodily  of  impend- 
ing maternity,  but  she  was  neither  depressed 
nor  dejected.  It  was  not  her  nature  to  be 
either.  God  had  given  her  not  only  strength, 
but  great  elasticity  of  temperament ;  she  had 
been  a  very  happy-hearted  girl  as  Josephine  de 
Bougainville,  and  she  was  no  less  so  as  Jose- 
phine Scanlan.  She  had  had  a  specially  hap- 
py summer — the  happiest,  she  thought,  since 
she  was  married ;  her  husband  had  been  so 
much  more  her  own,  and  she  had  enjoyed  to  the 
full  the  pleasure  of  being  sole  misti'ess  in  her 
own  house,  though  it  was  such  a  little  one.  I 
am  afraid,  if  questioned,  she  would  not  for  one 
moment  have  exchanged  Wren's  Nest  for  Mer- 
rion  Square. 

Nor — equal  delusion! — would  she  have  ex- 
changed her  own  husband,  the  poor  curate  of 
Ditchley,  for  the  richest  man  alive,  or  for  all 
the  riches  he  had  possessed  when  she  first  knew 
him.  She  was  very  fond  of  him  just  as  he  was. 
She  greatly  enjoyed  his  having  no  valet,  and 
requiring  her  to  wait  upon  him  hand  and  foot ; 
it  was  pleasanter  to  her  to  walk  across  the 
country,  ever  so  far,  clinging  to  his  arm,  than 
to  be  driven  along  in  state,  sitting  beside  him 
in  the  grand  carriage.  And  beyond  expres- 
sion sweet  to  her  were  the  quiet  evenings  which 
had  come  since  the  winter  set  in,  when  no  din- 
ner parties  were  possible,  and  after  the  chil- 
dren were  gone  to  bed  the  young  father  and  mo- 
ther sat  over  the  fire,  as  close  together  as  lovers, 
and  making  love  quite  as  foolishly  sometimes. 

"I  suspect,  after  all,  I  was  made  to  be  a 
poor  man's  wife,"  Josephine  would  sometimes 
say  to  herself,  and  think  over  all  her  duties  in 
that  character,  and  how  she  could  best  fulfill 
them,  so  that  her  Edward  might  not  miss  his 
lost  riches  the  least  in  the  world,  seeing  he  had 
gained,  as  she  had,  so  much  better  things. 

She  lay  thinking  of  him  on  this  wise,  very 
tenderly,  when  she  saw  him  come  striding  up 
to  the  garden-gate ;  and  her  heart  beat  quick- 
er, as  it  did  still — foolish,  fond  creature ! — at 
the  sight  of  her  young  husband — her  girlhood's 


love.  She  made  an  effort  to  rise  and  meet  him 
with  a  bright  face  and  open  arms. 

But  his  were  closed,  and  his  countenance  was 
dark  as  night — a  very  rare  thing  for  the  good- 
tempered,  easy-minded  Edward  Scanlan. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?  Are  you  ill? 
Has  any  thing  happened  ?" 

"Happened,  indeed!  I  should  think  so! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know — that  you 
never  guessed  ?     Look  there !" 

He  threw  over  to  her  one  of  those  innocent- 
looking,  terrible  little  books  called  bank-books, 
and  went  and  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa 
in  exceeding  discomposure.  ~ 

"  What  is  this  ?"— -opening  it  with  some  cu- 
riosity, for  she  had  never  seen  the  volume  be- 
fore ;  he  had  kept  it  in  his  desk,  being  one  of 
those  matters  of  business  which,  he  said,  "a 
woman  couldn't  understand." 

"Nonsense,  Josephine!  Of  course  you 
knew." 

"What  did  I  know?" 

"That  you  have  been  spending  so  much 
money  that  you  have  nearly  ruined  me.  Our 
account  is  overdrawn." 

"  Our  account  overdrawn !  What  does  that 
mean?"  she  said — not  answering,  except  by  a 
gentle  sort  of  smile,  the  first  half  of  his  sen- 
tence. For  she  could  not  have  been  married 
these  five  years  without  learning  one  small  fact 
— that  her  Edward  sometimes  made  "large" 
statements,  which  had  to  be  received  cum  grano, 
as  not  implying  more  than  half  he  said,  espe- 
cially when  he  was  a  little  vexed. 

"  Mean  !  It  means,  my  dear,  that  we  have 
not  a  half-penny  left  in  the  bank,  and  that  we 
owe  the  bank  two  pounds  five — no,  seven — I 
never  can  remember  those  stupid  shillings ! — 
over  and  above  our  account." 

"  Why  did  they  not  tell  you  before  ?"    - 

"Of  course  they  thought  it  did  not  matter. 
A  gentleman  like  me  would  always  keep  a 
banker's  account,  and  could  at  any  time  put 
more  money  in.  But  I  can't.  I  have  not  a 
penny-piece  in  the  world  besides  my  paltry  sal- 
ary. And  it  is  all  your  fault — all  your  fault, 
Josephine." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  was  startled.  Not  that  it  was 
the  first  time  she  had  been  spoken  to  crossly 
by  her  husband :  such  an  idyllic  state  of  con- 
cord is  quite  impossible  in  ordinary  married  life, 
and  in  this  work-a-day  world,  where  men's  tem- 
pers, and  women's  too,  are  rubbed  up  the  wrong 
way  continually ;  but  he  had  never  spoken  to 
her  with  such  sharp  injustice.  She  felt  it  acute- 
ly ;  and  then  paused  to  consider  whether  it  were 
not  possible  that  Edward  was  less  to  blame  than 
she.  For  she  loved  him ;  and,  to  fond,  ideal- 
izing love,  Avhile  the  ideal  remains  unbroken, 
it  is  so  much  easier  to  accuse  one's  self  than  the 
object  beloved. 

"  It  may  be  my  fault,  my  friend" — she  often 
called  him,  affectionately,  "my  friend,"  as  she 
remembered  hearing  her  mother  address  her 
father  as  "/won  ami,''  and  it  was  her  delight  to 
think  that  the  word  was  no  misnomer — every 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


"sue  lay  thinking  of  him  on  this  wise,  tendeel\. 


woman's  husband  should  be,  besides  all  else, 
her  best,  and  dearest,  and  closest  "friend." 
"But  if  it  is  my  fault  I  did  not  mean  it,  Ed- 
ward. It  was  because  I  did  not  understand. 
Sit  down  here,  and  try  to  make  me  under- 
stand." 

She  spoke  quite  cheerfully,  not  in  the  least 
comprehending  how  matters  stood,  nor  how  se- 
rious was  the  conjuncture.  When  it  dawned 
upon  her — for,  though  so  young  and  inexperi- 
enced, she  had  plenty  of  common-sense,  and  a 
remarkably  clear  head  at  business — she  looked 
extremely  grave. 

'*  I  think  I  do  understand  now.  You  put  all 
the  money  we  had,  which  was  a  hundred  pounds, 
into  the  bank,  and  you  have  fetched  it  out  for 
me  whenever  I  asked  you  for  it,  or  whenever 
you  wanted  some  yourself,  without  looking  how 
the  account  stood — the  '  balance,'  don't  you  call 
it? — and  when  you  went  to  the  bank  to-day, 
you  found  we  had  spent  it  all,  and  there  was 
nothing  left.     Isn't  that  it  ?" 

"  Exactly  so.  Wh§it  a  sharp  little  girl  you 
are;  how  quickly  you  have  taken  it  all  in!" 
said  he,  a  little  more  good-tempered,  having 


got  rid  of  his  crossness  by  its  first  ebullition, 
and  being  relieved  to  find  how  readily  she  for- 
gave it,  and  how  quietly  she  accepted  the  whole 
thing.  For  he  had  a  lurking  consciousness 
that,  on  the  whole,  he  had  been  a  little  "fool- 
ish," as  he  called  it  himself,  and  was  not  alto- 
gether free  from  blame  in  the  transaction. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have  taken  it  all  in,"  said 
she,  meditatively,  and  turning  a  shade  paler. 
"  I  comprehend  that  the  money  I  wanted  I  can 
not  get ;  that  we  shall  be  unable  to  get  any  more 
money  for  any  thing  until  Mr.  Oldham  pays  you 
your  next  half-yearly  salary." 

"Just  so.  But  don't  you  vex  yourself,  my 
love.  It  will  not  signify.  We  can  live  upon 
credit ;  my  father  lived  upon  credit  for  I  don't 
know  how  long." 

Josephine  was  silent — through  sheer  igno- 
rance. Her  translation  of  the  word  "credit" 
was  moral  virtue,  universal  respect:  and  she 
liked  to  think  how  deeply  her  husband  was  re- 
spected in  the  town ;  but  still  she  did  not  un- 
derstand how  his  good  name  would  suffice  to 
pay  his  butcher's  and  baker's  bills,  and  other 
expenses,  which  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


them  more  heavily  than  usual  this  Christmas. 
To  say  nothing  of  another  expense  —  and  a 
strange  pang  shot  through  the  young  mother's 
heart,  to  think  that  it  should  ever  take  the 
shape  of  a  burden  instead  of  a  blessing — the 
third  little  olive-branch  that  was  soon  to  sprout 
up  round  that  tiny  table. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  entreat- 
ingly — almost  tearfully,  as  if  a  sudden  sense  of 
lier  weakness  had  come  upon  her,  and  instinct- 
ively she  turned  to  her  husband  for  help :  "  Ed- 
ward, tell  me,  if  we  can  get  no  money,  not  till 
May,  from  Mr.  Oldham,  what  am  I  to  do — in 
March?" 

"Bless  my  soul,  I  had  forgotten  that!"  and 
the  young  man  spoke  in  a  tone  of  extreme  an- 
noyance. "You  should  have  thought  of  it 
yourself;  indeed,  you  should  have  thought  of 
every  thing  a  little  more.  March!  how  very 
inconvenient.  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  You 
must  just  manage  as  well  as  you  can." 

"Manage  as  well  as  I  can,"  repeated  Jose- 
phine, slowly,  and  lifted  up  in  his  face  her  great, 
dark,  heavy  eyes.  Perhaps  she  saw  something 
in  that  face  which  she  had  never  seen  before, 
some  line  which  implied  it  was  a  weaker  face, 
a  shallower  face  than  at  first  appeared.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  love  it  without  reading 
it  much — certainly  without  criticising  it;  but 
now  her  need  was  hard.  Still  harder,  too, 
when  wanting  it  most,  to  come  for  comfort 
and  find  none ;  or,  at  least,  so  little  that  it  was 
almost  none.  "He  does  not  understand,"  she 
said  to  herself,  and  ceased  speaking. 

"  It  is  very,  very  provoking,  altogether  most 
unfortunate,"  continued  the  curate.  "But  I 
suppose  you  can  manage,  my  dear;  laborers' 
wives  do  with  half  the  comforts  that  I  hope  you 
will  have.  Oh  dear,  a  poor  curate  is  much 
worse  off'  than  a  day-laborer!  But  as  to  the 
little  nurse-maid  you  were  speaking  to  me  about 
this  morning,  of  course  you  will  see  at  once  that 
such  an  additional  outlay  would  be  quite  impos- 
sible. She  would  eat  as  much  as  any  two  of 
us ;  and,  indeed,  we  shall  have  quite  enough 
.  mouths  to  fill — rather  too  many. " 

"Too  many!" 
-  It  was  but  a  chance  word,  but  it  had  stabbed 
her  like  a  sword — the  first  actual  wound  her 
husband  had  ever  given  her.  And,  by  nature, 
Josephine  Scanlan  was  a  woman  of  very  acute 
feelings,  sensitive  to  the  slightest  wound ;  not 
to  her  pride,  or  her  self-esteem,  but  to  her  af- 
fections and  her  strong  sense  of  right  and  jus- 
tice. She  answered  not  a  syllable  ;  she  turned 
away  quietly — and  stood  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow toward  where  Ditchley  church-spire  rose 
through  the  rainy  mist.  Then  she  thought,  with 
a  sudden,  startling  fancy,  of  the  church-yard  be- 
low it,  where  a  grave  might  open  yet — a  grave 
for  both  mother  and  babe — and  so  save  the  lit- 
tle household  from  being  "  too  many." 

It  was  an  idea  so  dreadful,  so  wicked,  that 
she  thrust  it  from  her  in  haste  and  shame,  and 
turned  back  to  her  husband,  trying  to  speak  in 
a  cheerful  voice  of  other  things, 
C 


"But  what  about  the  two  pounds  five,  or 
seven — which  is  it? — that  you  owe  the  bank? 
Of  course  we  must  pay  it." 

"  Oh  no,  they  will  trust  me ;  they  know  I  am 
a  gentleman." 

"  But  does  not  a  gentleman  always  pay  ?  My 
father  thought  so.  Whatever  comforts  we  went 
without,  if  the  landlord  came  up  for  our  rent  it 
was  ready  on  the  spot.  My  father  used  to  say, 
' Noblesse  oblige.'' " 

"Your  father,"  began  Mr.  Scanlan,  with  a 
slight  sneer  in  his  tone,  but  stopped.  For  there 
stood  opposite  to  him,  looking  at  him  with  stead- 
fast eyes,  the  poor  'C'icomte's  daughter,  the  beau- 
tiful girl  he  had  married — the  woman  who  was 
now  his  companion  for  life,  in  weal  or  woe,  evil 
report  or  good  report.  She  might  not  have 
meant  it — probably  was  wholly  unconscious  of 
the  fact — but  she  stood  more  erect  than  usual, 
with  all  the  blood  of  the  De  Bougainvilles  rising 
in  her  thin  cheeks  and  flaming  in  her  sunken 
eyes.  •♦ 

"  I  should  not  like  to  ask  the  bank  to  trust 
us,  Edward  ;  and  there  is  no  need,  I  paid  all 
my  bills  yesterday  for  the  month,  but  there  are 
still  three  sovereigns  left  in  my  purse.  You 
can  take  them  and  pay.  Will  you?  At 
once  ?" 

"There  is  no  necessity.  What  a  terrible 
hurry  you  are  in !  How  you  do  bother  a  man ! 
But  give  me  the  money." 

"Edward!"  As  he  snatched  at  the  offered 
purse,  half  jest,  half  earnest,  she  detained  him. 
"Kiss  me!  Don't  go  away  angry  with  me. 
We  are  never  surely  beginning  to  quarrel  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Only — well,  promise  to  be 
more  careful  another  time.*' 

She  promised,  almost  with  a  sense  of  contri- 
tion, though  she  did  not  exactly  know  what  she 
had  to  repent  of.  But  when  her  husband  was 
gone  up  stairs,  and  she  lay  down  again,  and  be- 
gan calmly  thinking  the  matter  over,  her^ense 
of  justice  righted  itself,  and  she  saw  things 
clearer — alas  !  only  too  clear. 

She  knew  she  had  erred,  but  not  in  the  way 
Edward  thought :  in  quite  a  contrary  direction. 
How  could  she,  a  mistress  and  mother  of  a  fam- 
ily, have  been  so  unwise  as  to  take  every  thing 
upon  trust,  live  merrily  all  that  summer,  sup- 
plying both  herself  and  the  household  with  ev- 
ery thing  they  needed,  \yithout  inquiring  a  syl- 
lable about  the  money ;  where  it  all  came  from, 
how  long  it  would  last,  and  whether  she  was 
justified  in  thus  expending  it ! 

"  Of  course,  Edward  did  not  think,  could  not 
calculate — it  was  never  his  way.  His  poor  mo- 
ther was  right ;  this  was  my  business,  and  I  have 
neglected  it.  But  I  was  so  ignorant.  And  so 
happy — so  happy !" 

Her  heart  seemed  to  collapse  with  a  strange, 
cold  fear — a  forewaniing  that  henceforward  she 
might  not  too  often  have  that  excuse  of  happi- 
ness. It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  restrained 
herself  before  her  husband  ;  and  the  minute  he 
had  left  her — which  he  did  rather  carelessly, 
and  quite  satisfied  she  was  "all  right  now" — 


34 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


she   burst   into   such  hysterical   sobbing    that 
Bridget  in  the  kitchen  heard  and  came  in. 

But  when,  with  fond  Irish  familiarity,  the 
girl  entreated  to  know  what  was  the  matter, 
and  whether  she  should  run  and  fetch  the  mas- 
ter, Mrs.  Scanlan  gave  a  decided  negative, 
which  surprised  Bridget  as  much  as  these  hys- 
terical tears. 

Bridget  and  her  master  Avere  not  quite  upon 
as  good  terms  as  Bridget  and  her  mistress.  Mr. 
Scanlan  disliked  ugly  people ;  also,  he  treated 
servants  generally  with  a  certain  roughness  and 
lordliness,  which  some  people  think  it  necessary 
to  show,  just  to  prove  the  great  difference  be- 
tween them  and  their  masters,  which  otherwise 
might  not  be  sufiiciently  discernible. 

But  when  she  saw  him  from  the  window  strid- 
ing across  the  common  toward  Ditchley,  leaving 
the  house  and  never  looking  behind  him,  though 
he,  and  he  only,  must  have  been  the  cause  of 
his  wife's  agitation,  either  by  talking  to  her  in 
some  thoughtless  way,  or  telling  her  some  piece 
of  bad  news  which  he  ought  to  have  had  the 
sense  to  keep  to  himself,  Bridget  felt  extremely 
angry  with  Mr.  Scanlan. 

However,  she  was  wise  enough  to  hold  her 
tongue,  and  devote  all  her  efforts  to  soothe  and 
quiet  her  mistress,  which  was  finally  effected  by 
a  most  fortunate  domestic  catastrophe ;  Ce'sar 
and  little  Adrienne  being  found  quarreling  over 
the  toa;Sting-fork  Avhich  Bridget  had  dropped  in 
her  hurry,  and  which  was  so  hot  in  the  prongs 
that  both  burned  their  fingers,  and  tottered 
screaming  to  their  mother's  sofa.  This  brought 
Mrs.  Scanlan  to  herself  at  once.  She  sat  up, 
cuddled  them  to  her  bosom,  and  began  comfort- 
ing them  as  mothers  can — by  which  she  soon 
comforted  herself  likewise.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  Bridget,  who  stood  by  her,  silent  and  grim 
— poor  Bridget's, plain  face  was  always  so  very 
grim  when  she  was  silent — and  made  a  half  ex- 
cuse or  apology. 

"I  can't  think  what  made  me  turn  so  ill, 
Bridget.  I  have  been  doing  almost  nothing  all 
day." 

"  Doing !  No,  ma'am,  it's  not  doing,  it's  talk- 
ing," replied  Bridget,  with  a  severe  and  impress- 
ive emphasis,  which  brought  the  color  to  her 
mistress's  cheeks.  "But  the  master's  gone  to 
Ditchley,  I  think,  and  he  can't  be  back  just  yet," 
she  added,  triumphantly ;  as  if  the  master's  ab- 
sence at  this  crisis,  if  a  discredit  to  himself,  was 
a  decided  benefit  to  the  rest  of  the  household. 

"I  know.  He  has  gone  on  business,"  said 
Mrs.  Scanlan.  And  then  the  business  he  had 
gone  upon  came  back  upon  her  mind  in  all  its 
painfulness ;  she  turned  so  deadly  white  once 
more  that  Bridget  was  frightened, 

"Oh,  ma'am!"  she  cried,  "what  in  the 
world  has  happened  ?" 

(Here  I  had  better  state  that  I  make  no  at- 
tempt to  give  Bridget's  brogue.  Indeed,  when 
I  knew  her  she  had  almost  none  remaining. 
She  had  come  so  early  into  her  mistress's  serv- 
ice, and  she  had  lived  so  long  in  England,  that 
her  Hibemicisms  of  speech  and  character  had 


gradually  dropped  off  from  her ;  all  except  the 
warm  heart  and  elastic  spirit,  the  shrewd  wit 
and  stanch  fidelity,  which  especially  belong  to 
her  nation,  neutralizing  many  bad  qualities,  to 
which  miserable  experience  forces  us  to  give  the 
bitter  adjective — so  "Irish.") 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan. 
"I  suppose  I  am  not  quite  so  strong  as  I  ought 
to  be,  but  I  shall  soon  be  all  right,  I  hope. 
Come,  Baby,  it's  near  your  bedtime ;  my  bless- 
ing! don't  cry  so!  it  goes  to  mother's  heart." 

She  roused  herself  and  began  walking  up 
and  down  with  Adrienne  in  her  arms,  vainly 
trying  to  still  her  cries  and  hush  her  to  sleep, 
but  looking  herself  so  wretched  all  the  time,  so 
feeble  and  incapable  of  effort,  that  Bridget  at 
last  said,  remonstratively : 

"You're  not  to  do  that,  ma'am.  Indeed, 
you're  not." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan, 
turning  quickly  round ;  "  what  am  I  not  to  do  ?" 

"Not  to  be  carrying  that  heavy  child  about. 
It  isn't  your  business,  ma'am,  and  you're  not  fit 
for  it.  And  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  do  it,  ei- 
ther." 

"  I  must,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  in  a  tone  so 
sharp  that  Bridget  quite  started.  Her  mistress 
was  usually  excessively  gentle  in  manner  and 
speech — too  gentle,  Bridget,  who  had  a  tongue 
of  her  own,  and  a  temper  also,  sometimes  con- 
sidered. Nevertheless,  the  sharpness  surprised 
her,  but  it  was  away  in  a  minute. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  turned  round  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  cross,  Bridget.  I 
only  meant  that  I  must  learn  to  do  a  great  many 
things  that  I  have.not  hitherto  done." 

What  things?  Bridget  wanted  to  know. 
Because  she  thought  the  mistress  did  quite 
enough,  and  too  much ;  she  should  be  very  glad 
when  they  had  a  second  sei'vant. 

"No,  we  shall  not  have  a  second  servant." 

Bridget  stared. 

"  It  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  We  can 
not  possibly  afford  it ;  Mr.  Scanlan  says  so,  and 
of  course  he  knows." 

Josephine  said  this  with  a  certain  air  of  dig- 
nity, by  which  she  wished  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
"argufying"  that  she  feared;  but  Bridget,  in- 
stead, looked  so  shocked  and  disconsolate  that 
her  mistress  took  the  other  tack,  and  began  to 
console  her. 

"Really  we  need  not  mind  much  about  it. 
A  girl  of  twelve  would  have  been  very  ignorant 
and  useless,  and  perhaps  more  of  a  trouble  than 
a  help ;  and  I  shall  be  able  to  help  much  more 
by-and-by,  and  according  as  I  get  used  to  things. 
I  was  so  very  innocent  of  all  house  affairs  when 
I  came  here,"  added  she,  smiling,  "but  I  think 
I  grow  cleverer  every  day  now." 

"Ma'am,  you're  the  cleverest  lady  I  ever 
knew.  And  you  took  to  housekeeping  like  a 
duck  to  the  water.  More's  the  pity !  you  that 
can  play  music,  and  talk  foreign  tongues,  and 
work  beautiful  with  your  fingers — and  there  you 
are  washing  dishes,  and  children's  clothes,  and 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


35 


children,  with  those  same  pretty  fingers.  I'd 
like  to  tie  'em  up  in  a  bag." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Seanlan,  laughing 
outright  now:  she  and  Bridget  often  laughed 
together,  with  their  French  and  Irish  light- 
heartedness,  even  amidst  the  hardest  work 
and  the  cloudiest  days.  "But  seriously,  think 
how  many  mothers  have  to  take  care  of  their 
own  children  without  any  nurse-maid — without 
any  help  at  all — and  I  have  yours.  And  three 
will  not  be  much  more  trouble  than  two ;  in- 
deed, this  morning  one  of  my  neighbors  con- 
soled me  by  saying  that,  after  two  children, 
even  ten  did  not  make  much  difference." 

"And  we  may  have  ten !"  said  Bridget,  with 
a  very  long  face,  and  a  grave  personal  appropri- 
ation of  the  responsibility,  which  at  first  made 
lier  mistress  laugh  again — then  suddenly  turn 
grave,  muttering  to  herself  something  in  French. 
For  the  first  time  it  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Scan- 
Ian  that  circumstances  might  arise  in  which 
these  gifts  of  God  were  not  altogether  bless- 
ings. The  thought  was  so  painful,  so  startling, 
that  she  could  not  face  it.  She  drove  it  back, 
with  all  the  causes  which  had  suggested  it,  into 
the  innermost  comers  of  her  heart.  And  with 
her  heart's  vision  she  utterly  refused  to  see — 
what  to  her  reason's  eyes  would  have  been  clear 
enough — that  her  husband  had  acted  like  a 
child,  and  been  as  vexed  as  a  child  when  his 
carelessness  came  to  light.  Also  that  the  care- 
lessness as  to  worldly  matters,  which  does  not 
so  much  signify  when  a  man  is  a  bachelor,  and 
lias  nobody  to  harm  but  himself  (if  ever  such  a 
state  of  isolation  is  possible),  becomes  an  actual 
sin  when  he  is  married  and  has  others  depend- 
ing on  him — others  whom  his  least  actions  must 
affect  vitally,  for  good  or  ill. 

But  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
rocking  Edward's  child  to  sleep — Adrienne  was 
the  one  of  her  babies  most  like  the  father, 
Ce'sar  being  entirely  a  De  Bougainville — Jose- 
phine could  not  think  hardly  of  her  Edward.  He 
would  grow  wiser  in  time,  and  meanwhile  the 
least  said  or  thought  of  his  mistake  the  better. 
Nor  did  she  communicate  any  further  of  it  to 
Bridget,  beyond  saying  that,  besides  omitting 
the  little  nurse-maid,  they  would  henceforward 
have  to  be  doubly  economical ;  for  Mr.  Seanlan 
and  herself  had  decided  they  were  spending  a 
great  deal  more  than  they  ought. 

"Ugh!"  said  Bridget,  and  asked  no  more 
questions ;  for  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  even 
her  sweet  young  mistress  when  it  pleased  her  to 
assume  that  gentle  reserve.  But  the  shrewd 
servant,  nevertheless,  made  up  her  mind  that — 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  by  direct  inquiry,  or  by 
the  exercise  of  that  sharp  Irish  wit  in  which  the 
girl  was  by  no  means  deficient — she  would  find 
out  what  had  passed  between  the  husband  and 
wife,  to  make  her  mistress  so  ill.  Also,  wheth- 
er there  was  any  real  occasion  for  her  master's 
extraordinary  stinginess. 

"It's  not  his  way!  quite  the  contrary!" 
thought  she,  when,  while  Mrs.  Seanlan  was 
hushing  baby  to  sleep,  she  slipped  up  and  put 


to  rights  the  one  large  room  which  served  as 
bedroom  for  both  parents  and  children :  finding 
Mr.  Scanlan's  clothes  scattered  over  Cesar's  lit- 
tle bed ;  crumpled  shirts  without  end  (for  he 
had  been  dressing  to  dine  out),  and  half  a  dozen 
pairs  of  soiled  lavender  gloves.  "  What  busi- 
ness has  he  to  wear  lavender  kid  gloves,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?"  said  Bridget  to  herself, 
rather  severely.  "They'd  have  bought  Master 
Cesar  two  pair  of  boots,  or  the  mistress  a  new 
bonnet.  Ugh !  men  are  queer  creatures — I'm 
glad  I  wasn't  a  man,  any  how  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

After  this  day  the  curate's  family  began 
painfully  to  recognize  that  they  were  really 
"  poor"  people. 

Not  that  Mr.  Scanlan's  salary  was  small ;  in- 
deed, the  rector  had  been  most  liberal :  but  the 
real  property  of  a  family  consists,  not  so  much 
in  what  comes  in,  as  in  what  goes  out.  Had 
they  never  been  richer  than  now,  no  doubt  they 
would  have  considered  themselves  tolerably  well 
off,  and  have  received  smiling  even  the  third  lit- 
tle "encumbrance,"  which  ere  long  made  the 
cottage  too  busy  and  too  noisy  for  Mr.  Seanlan 
to  "  study"  there  with  any  sort  of  comfort.  Not 
that  he  was  fond  of  reading,  or  ever  read  very 
much ;  but  he  liked  to  have  his  books  about 
him,  especially  the  Greek  and  Latin  ones :  it 
"looked  well,"  he  said.  He  had  come  to 
Ditchley  breathing  a  great  aroma  of  classical 
learning,  and  he  did  not  like  it  to  die  out :  it 
gave  him  such  an  influence  in  the  parish.  So 
he  was  much  annoyed  to  find  that  it  was  now 
difficult  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  a  man  of 
literature  ;  for  instance,  his  few  books  had  dai- 
ly to  be  cleared  away  that  the  family  might  dine 
upon  his  study-table — and  though  that  rarely 
incommoded  him  personally,  he  being  so  often 
absent  at  dinner-hour — and  invariably  on  "fast- 
days,"  as  Bridget  called  them,  she  having  been 
once  a  Catholic.  She  was  not  one  now ;  hav- 
ing soon  expressed  her  willingness  to  turn  Prot- 
estant, or  indeed  any  religion  that  Mrs.  Seanlan 
chose:  she  wished  to  go  to  heaven  with  her 
mistress,  she  said,  and  how  she  went,  or  by 
what  road,  was  of  no  great  consequence. 

These  "fast-days"  were  always  made  a  joke 
of,  by  both  her,  her  mistress,  and  the  children, 
who  were  brought  up  to  accept  them  as  natural 
circumstances.  But  the  truth  was,  the  little 
family  did  not  eat  meat  every  day ;  they  could 
not  aflord  it.  They  always  chose  for  their 
maigre  days  those  days  when  Mr.  Seanlan  was 
out — which  happened  pretty  frequently — for  he 
had  all  the  parochial  visiting  to  do :  the  parish 
was  large  and  the  houses  scattered.  More- 
over, he  was  so  agreeable — had  such  a  deal  to 
say  for  himself,  and  such  a  pleasant  Irish  way 
of  saying  it,  that  every  body  was  delighted  to 
see  him.  His  welcome  from  house  to  house 
was  universal,  and  his  invitations  were  endless. 
At  first  he  used  to  refuse  them,  not  liking  to 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


go  any  where  without  his  wife ;  but  when  her 
accompanying  him  began  to  groAV  difficult,  nay 
impossible,  he  refused  less  and  less.  The  neigh- 
bors were  so  veiy  pressing,  he  said,  and  he  could 
not  well  offend  his  own  parishioners.  Gradually, 
as  summer  advanced,  their  eagerness  for  his  so- 
ciety grew  to  that  pass  that  he  might  have  dined 
away  from  home  every  day  in  the  week;  in 
fact  he  often  was  absent  three  or  four  days  out 
of  the  seven. 

At  first,  I  think,  his  young  wife  fretted  a 
good  deal  about  this.  She  did  not  care  to 
have  him  stopping  at  home  all  day  long ;  the 
children  were  a  weariness  and  a  trouble  to  him, 
for  there  was  no  nursery  to  hide  them  in ;  and 
besides,  she  could  not  do  her  duty  properly  to 
them  when  he  was  there.  Nor  to  him — as  she 
often  vexed  herself  with  thinking — when  they, 
poor  little  pets !  were  always  wanting  her,  and 
always  in  the  way.  But  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  see  her  husband  come  regularly  home 
of  evenings.  She  would  have  liked  to  sit  and 
watch  for  him  across  the  common  at  a  certain 
fixed  hour;  to  have  known  that — punctual  as 
the  sun— he  would  have  come  in  and  shone 
upon  her ;  her  sunrising  being  at  the  ordinary 
sunsetting  —  the  close  of  the  day.  It  would 
have  been  good  for  her,  and  sweet  to  her,  she 
knew,  if,  though  he  disliked  to  be  troubled  and 
worried — and  she  should  always  avoid  that — he 
had  taken  a  kindly,  husbandly  interest  in  things 
at  home.  It  would  have  helped  her,  and  made 
her  strong,  braver,  and  fresher  to  bear  the  thou- 
sand little  household  burdens,  that  are,  in  the 
total,  so  heavy — men  have  little  idea  how  heavy ! 
— upon  women's  weak  shoulders.  Especially 
young  women — who  have  yet  to  learn  how  God 
fits  the  back  to  the  burden,  and  how  He  never 
suffers  the  brave  heart  to  fail,  however  totter- 
ing may  be  the  feeble  knees. 

But  Mr.  Scanlan  did  not  seem  to  understand 
these  little  difficulties  of  his  wife.  He  was  very 
kind,  very  affectionate ;  but  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  she,  being  young  and  inexperienced, 
needed  help  as  well  as  love,  shelter  as  well  as 
sunshine.  He  was  very  good  when  all  was 
smooth  and  bright,  but  when  any  temporary 
cloud  came  over  Wren's  Nest,  as  clouds  will 
come — slight  sicknesses  of  the  children,  or  small 
domestic  cares  of  any  kind  —  he  just  slipped 
away,  and  left  her  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the 
battle.  True,  when  he  reappeared,  he  over- 
whelmed her  with  praise  for  having  borne  it  so 
exceedingly  well ;  which  was  most  pleasant  to 
his  wife's  heart  —  so  pleasant  that  it  seldom 
occurred  to  her  till  afterward  that  the  battle 
might  have  been  easier  had  she  not  been  left 
to  fight  it  single-handed. 

Still,  a  husband  at  home  all  day  is  a  great 
nuisance,  especially  with  a  young  family ;  and 
she  was  not  always  sorry  for  Mr.  Scanlan's  ab- 
sence, particularly  at  dinner-time.  Women  can 
put  up  with  so  many  things  that  are  intolerable 
to  men.  When  butcher's  meat  ran  short,  Brid- 
get developed  quite  a  genius  for  puddings,  which 
delighted  the, children  amazingly.     And  then 


their  mother  tried  her  delicate  hand  at  various 
French  cookeries  which  she  remembered  out 
of  "the  days  of  her  youth,"  as  she  began  to 
call  them  now,  and  especially  the  potau-feu, 
which  her  mother  used  to  see  when,  as  the 
young  demoiselle  of  the  chateau,  she  was  taken 
by  her  nurse  to  visit  old  Norman  cottages. 
She  loved  to  tell  about  this  wonderful  Nor- 
mandy to  her  little  Cesar,  who  listened  ea- 
gerly, with  the  precocity  not  rare  in  eldest  chil- 
dren, when  the  circumstances  of  the  household 
compel  them  to  the  lot — often  a  most  happy 
one — of  being  constantly  under  the  mother's 
eye,  and  constituted  the  mother's  principal 
companion. 

These  details  I  take  from  the  Saturday  night's 
journal,  which  Mrs.  Scanlan  kept  so  scrupulous- 
ly and  for  so  many  years.  It  was,  as  I  have 
said,  written  in  French,  her  fondly-remembered 
native  tongue,  but  it  was  not  at  all  French  in 
its  style,  being  quite  free  from  that  sentimental 
exaggeration  of  feeling  which  makes  Frencli 
journals  and  letters  of  the  last  century  or  half- 
century  seem  so  queer  and  affected  to  our  Brit- 
ish undemonstrativeness.  Hers  was  as  plain, 
as  accurate,  as  if  she  had  been  the  "thorough 
Englishwoman" — into  which,  as  their  summit 
of  well-meant  praise,  her  neighbors  told  her  she 
was  growing.  She  records  the  fact,  but  makes 
no  comment  thereon. 

Nor  will  I.  I  believe  firmly  in  the  science 
of  anthropology;  that  you  might  as  well  expect 
to  evolve  certain  qualities  out  of  certain  races, 
as  to  grow  a  rose  out  of  a  tulip ;  buijyou  can 
modify  both  rose  and  tulip  to  an  almost  infinite 
extent,  cultivating  their  good  points,  and  re- 
pressing their  bad  ones ;  and  to  quarrel  with  a 
tulip  because  it  is  not  a  rose  is  certainly  an  act 
of  supreme  folly,  even  though  one  may  like  the 
rose  far  better.  I  myself  own  to  having  a  warm 
love  for  roses,  and  a  strong  aversion  to  tulips ; 
yet  when  a  certain  great  and  good  man  once 
took  me  to  his  favorite  ftilip-bed,  and  dilated 
on  its  merits,  exhibiting  with  delighted  admira- 
tion the  different  sorts  of  blooms,  I  felt  tempt- 
ed to  say  within  myself.  Can  I  have  been  mis- 
taken ?  is  a  tulip  a  desirable,  not  a  detestable, 
flower  after  all?  And  I  was  such  a  tender 
hypocrite  to  my  old  friend  that  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  confess  I  had  detested  tulips  all  my 
life,  but  meant  henceforward  to  have  a  kindly 
feeling  toward  them — for  his  sake. 

So  those  of  my  readers  who  hate  French  peo- 
ple and  Irish  people,  with  their  national  char- 
acteristics— may  be  a  little  lenient  to  both,  as 
they  read  on  farther  in  this  story. 

Mrs.  Scanlan's  neighbors,  though  they  did 
pay  her  these  doubtful  compliments  as  to  her 
foreign  extraction,  were  very  kind, and  neigh- 
borly. They  admired  her  without  being  envi- 
ous of  her,  for  indeed  there  was  no  need.  She 
came  into  competition  with  none  of  them.  The 
young  ladies,  unto  whom  her  beauty  might  have 
made  her  a  sore  rival,  were  quite  safe — she  was 
already  married.  The  matrons,  with  whotn  she 
might  otherwise  have  contested  social  distinc- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


87 


tion,  were  also  secure — she  never  gave  enter- 
tainments, and  competed  for  the  queenship  of 
society  with  no  one.  The  one  field  in  which, 
had  she  fought,  she  must  certainly  have  come 
off  victorious,  there  being  no  lady  for  miles 
round  who  was  her  equal  in  qualities  which  I 
think  are  more  French  than  English — in  the 
gifts  of  being  a  good  talker,  a  better  listener ; 
of  making  people  comfortable  together  without 
knowing  why ;  and  of  always  looking  so  sweet 
and  pleasant  and  pleased  with  every  thing  that 
all  people  were  perforce  pleased,  both  with  them- 
selves and  her— from  that  grand  arena  Mrs. 
Scanlan  retired  ;  and  so  soon  that  nobody  had 
time  to  dislike  her  for  succeeding  in  it. 

She  had  another  quality  which  made  her 
popular  at  Ditchley — she  always  sympathized 
with  her  neighbors,  and  interested  herself 
warmly  in  their  affairs,  without  ever  troubling 
them  with  her  own.  I  remember  a  certain  line 
out  of  a  once  popular  ballad,  which  then  struck 
me  as  a  v§ry  unfair  balance  of  things,  but  which 
I  have  since  recognized  as  the  easiest  and  safest 
plan  after  all,  with  regard  to  all  but  the  one  or 
two  intimate  friends  that  one  makes  in  a  life- 


"So  let  us  hope  the  future  as  the  past  has  been 
will  be, 
I  will  share  with  thee  thy  sorrows,  and  thou  thy 
joys  with  me." 

It  illustrates  exactly  the  unconscious  creed  and 
daily  practice  of  Josephine  Scanlan. 

Thus,  narrow-minded  as  Ditchley  was  in  some 
things-'i-as  all  country  towns  necessarily  must  be, 
and  were  then,  before  the  era  of  railways,  much 
more  so  than  now — it  had  a  warm  heart,  and 
kept  the  warmest  side  of  it  to  the  curate's  wife, 
a  stranger  though  she  was.  Of  her  small  out- 
side world  Mrs.  Scanlan  had  nothing  to  com- 
plain. It  may  have  criticised  her  pretty  freely ; 
very  likely  it  did ;  but  the  criticisms  fell  harm- 
less. She  never  heard  them,  or  if  she  had  heard, 
would  not  have  heeded.  She  was  so  entirely 
free  from  ill-nature  herself  that  she  never  sus- 
pected it  in  others.  If  people  talked  about  her, 
what  harm  did  it  do  her  ?  She  was  very  sure 
they  never  said  any  thing  unkind. 

And,  strange  to  relate,  I  believe  they  never 
did.  She  was  so  entirely  simple  and  straight- 
forward— ay,  from  the  first  day  when  she  ex- 
plained, quite  unhesitatingly,  the  dire  mystery 
which  had  agitated  Ditchley  for  weeks,  the  Scan- 
lan and  Co.  porter-bottle ! — that  spite  laid  down 
its  arrows  unused,  meanness  shrank  ashamed 
into  its  own  dark  corners,  and  even  malice  re- 
tired abashed  before  the  innocent  brightness  of 
her  unconscious  face. 

"Every  body  likes  me,"  she  said  of  herself 
at  this  time.  "  I  really  don't  know  why  they 
do  it,  but  I  am  sure  they  do.  And  I  am  so 
glad.     It  is  such  a  comfort  to  me." 

Was  she  beginning  to  need  comfort — outside 
comfort — even  already  ? 

Hor  outside  gayety  was  certainly  ceasing  by 
slow  degrees.  She  was  invited  as  usual,  with 
her  husband ;  but  gradually  it  came  to  be  an 


understood  thing  that  Mr.  Scanlan  went  and 
Mrs.  Scanlan  remained  at  home.  *'  She  could 
not  leave  the  baby,"  was  at  first  a  valid  and 
generally  accepted  excuse,  and  by  the  time  it 
ceased  to  be  available  her  absence  had  become 
such  a  matter  of  habit  that  nobody  wondered 
at  it.  For  a  while  the  "  every  body"  who  liked 
her  so  much  missed  her  a  little,  and  even  re- 
monstrated with  her  as  to  whether  she  was  not 
sacrificing  herself  too  much  to  her  family,  and 
whether  she  was  not  afraid  of  making  Mr. 
Scanlan  angry  in  thus  letting  him  go  out  alone. 
"Oh  no!"  she  would  reply,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"my  husband  is  not  at  all  angry.  He  quite 
understands  the  state  of  the  case." 

He  did  understand,  after  his  fashion — that 
is,  he  presently  discovered  that  it  is  somewhat 
inconvenient  to  take  into  society  a  wife  who 
has  no  carriage  to  go  out  in,  but  must  spoil  her 
elegant  attire  by  walking.  Or  still  worse,  who 
has  no  elegant  attire  at  all,  and  wherever  she 
appears  is  sure  to  be  dressed  more  plainly  than 
any  lady  in  the  room. 

It  may  seem  ridiculously  small,  but  the  sub- 
ject of  clothes  was  now  growing  one  of  the 
burdens  of  Mrs.  Scanlan's  life.  She  had  never 
thought  much  of  dress  before  her  marriage,  and 
afterward  her  rich  toilet  had  been  accepted  by 
her  both  pleasantly  and  naturally.  Every  body 
about  her  dressed  well,  and  so  did  she,  for  her 
husband  liked  it.  Fortunately  her  good  clothes 
were  so  many  that  they  lasted  long  after  her 
good  days — that  is  to  say,  her  rich  days — were 
done. 

But  now  the  purple  and  fine  linen  began  to 
come  to  an  end,  and  were  hopeless  of  replace- 
ment. The  first  time  she  went  to  Ditchley  to 
buy  herself  a  new  dress,  which  her  husband  de- 
clared she  must  have,  she  was  horrified  to  find 
that  a  gown  like  one  of  her  old  worn-out  ones 
would  involve  the  sacrifice  of  two  months'  in- 
come to  the  little  household  at  Wren's  Nest.  So 
her  dream  of  a  new  silk  dress  vanished :  she 
brought  home  a  muslin  one,  to  the  extreme  in- 
dignation of  Mr.  Scanlan. 

Poor  man !  he  could  not  understand  why 
clothes  should  wear  out,  and  as  little  why  they 
should  not  be  perpetually  renewed.  He  had 
never  seen  his  mother  dress  shabbily  —  why 
should  his  wife  do  so  ?  His  wife,  upon  whom 
his  credit  rested.  If  she  had  only  herself  to 
consider  it  would  not  have  signified ;  but  a 
married  lady — the  Reverend  Edward  Scanlan's 
wife — was  quite  another  thing.  He  could  not 
see  the  reason  for  it :  she  must  be  learning  slat- 
ternly ways ;  yielding  to  matronly  untidiness, 
as  he  saw  young  mothers  sometimes  do — which 
he  always  thought  a  great  shame,  and  a  great 
unkindness  to  the  husband.  Which  arguments 
were  perfectly  true  in  the  main,  and  Josephine 
recognized  the  fact.  Yet  the  last  one  went 
rather  sharply  into  the  young  matron's  heart. 

She  changed  her  style  of  dress  altogether. 
Her  costly  but  no  Jpnger  fresh  silks  and  satins 
were  put  away — indeed,  they  fell  away  of  them- 
selves, having  been  remodeled  and  altered  to 


38 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


the  last  extremity  of  even  French  feminine  in- 
genuity. She  now  appeared  almost  exclusive- 
ly in  cotton  print  of  a  morning,  in  white  dimity 
of  an  afternoon ;  dresses  which  Bridget  could 
wash  endlessly,  and  which  each  week  looked 
fresh  and  new  again.  Her  children  the  same. 
She  could  not  give  them  a  clean  frock  every 
day,  as  their  father  wished — every  other  child 
he  saw  had  always  a  clean  frock  on,  and  why 
not  his -children?  —  but  she  dressed  them  in 
neat  blue-spotted  pinafores — blouses  she  called 
them — the  faii^iliar  French  name — with  a  plain 
leather  belt  round  the  waist — and  they  looked 
so  pretty,  so  very  pretty! — or  she  and  Bridget 
thought  so  many  a  time. 

It  is  a  curious  and  sad  indication  of  how 
things  changed  after  the  first  sunshiny  summer 
at  Wren's  Nest,  that  the  mistress  and  servant 
seemed  to  have  settled  their  domestic  affairs  to- 
gether, and  shared  their  domestic  griefs  and 
joys,  very  much  more  than  the  mistress  and 
master.  Whenever  there  was  a  sacrifice  to  be 
made,  or  a  vexation  or  fatigue  to  be  endured, 
it  was  they  who  suffered  —  any  how,  not  Mr. 
Scanlan.  Mrs.  Scanlan  contrived  to  shield  her 
husband — almost  as  she  did  her  little  children 
— from  any  household  perplexity  or  calamity, 
and  especially  from  a  certain  dim  sound  heard 
in  the  distance,  every  day  approaching  nearer 
and  nearer — the  howling  of  that  blatant  beast, 
"the  wolf  at  the  door." 

"Hardships  are  so  much  worse  to  him  than 
to  me,"  she  would  reason.  "  With  me  it  is  but 
just  going  back  to  old  times,  when  I  lived  at 
home  with  my  father — and  we  were  so  very 
poor — and  so  very  happy  too,  I  think — whereas 
with  my  husband  it  is  different.  He  has  been 
rolling  in  money  all  his  life — poor  Edward!" 

No  doubt  this  was  true.  Nor  do  I  wish  to 
judge  the  curate  more  harshly  than  his  wife 
judged  him.  Besides,  people  are  variously 
constituted ;  their  ideals  of  happiness  are  dif- 
ferent. I  can  imagine  that  when  Josephine 
Scanlan  sat  in  front  of  her  neat  cottage — with 
Cesar  and  Adrienne  playing  at  her  feet,  and 
her  baby-boy  asleep  on  her  lap — sewing  hard, 
for  she  had  never  done  sewing— yet  stopping  a 
minute  now  and  then  to  refresh  her  eyes  with 
the  sweet  landscape — green,  low  hills,  smooth 
and  sunny,  which  shut  out  the  not  very  distant 
sea,  beyond  which  lay  la  belle  France,  which 
she  had  always  dreamed  of,  but  never  beheld — 
I  can  imagine,  I  say,  that  it  mattered  very  little 
to  Josephine  Scanlan  whether  she  lived  in  a 
great  house  or  a  small  one ;  whether  she  went 
clad  in  satin  and  velvet,  or  in  the  common  dim 
ity  gown,  which  Bridget  often  sat  up  half  the 
night  to  wash  and  iron  for  Sundays,  and  in 
which,  as  she  went  to  church  with  a  child  in 
either  hand,  poor  Bridget  declared,  the  mistress 
looked  "like  an  angel  just  dropped  from  the 
sky." 

Whether  the  rest  of  the  congregation  were  of 
that  opinion  can  not  now  be  discovered.  They 
still  paid  occasional  visits  to  Wren's  Nest,  stop- 
ping in  carriage-and-pair  at  the  garden-gate, 


and  causing  Bridget  a  world  of  flurry  to  get  a 
clean  apron  and  smooth  her  hair  before  rushing 
to  open  it.  But  it  is  a  very  different  thing, 
paying  visits  in  a  carriage  after  an  idle  morn- 
ing, and  paying  them  on  foot  after  a  morning  s 
hard  work  in  arranging  the  house  affairs  and 
looking  after  the  children.  Mrs.  Scanlan  had 
to  explain  this — which  she  did  very  simply — to 
such  of  her  husband's  parishioners  as  were  spe- 
cially kind  to  her,  and  with  whom  she  would 
have  liked  to  associate,  had  fate  allowed.  Her 
excuses  were  readily  and  graciously  accepted ; 
but,  after  a  time,  the  natural  results  of  such  an 
unequal  balance  of  things  ensued.  Her  visitors 
became  fewer  and  fewer :  sometimes,  in  winter, 
whole  weeks  passed  without  a  single  foot  cross- 
ing the  threshold  of  Wren's  Nest. 

Necessarily,  too,  there  came  a  decline  in 
other  branches  of  parish  duty  that  Mr.  Scanlan 
considered  essential,  and  urged  his  wife  to  keep 
up ;  which  she  did  at  first  to  the  utmost  of  her 
power — Dorcas  societies,  district  visifing,  vil- 
lage school-feasts,  and  so  on  ;  various  forms  of 
benevolenxie  which  had  lain  dormant  until  the 
young  curate  came.  Ditchley,  having  a  very 
small  number  of  poor,  and  abounding  in  wealthy 
families  with  nothing  to  do,.soon  found  charity  a 
charming  amusement ;  and  the  different  schemes 
which  the  new  clergyman  started  for  its  admin- 
istration made  him  very  popular. 

But  with  Mrs.  Scanlan  the  case  was  different. 

"  I  can't  sit  making  clothes  foi' little  negroes, 
and  let  my  own  children  run  ragged,"  said  she 
once,  smiling :  and  arguing  half  in  earnest,  half 
in  jest — for  she  found  that  the  latter  often  an- 
swered best — with  her  husband,  who  had  been 
sharply  reproving  her.  "And,  Edward,  it  is 
rather  hard  to  sit  smilingly  distributing  fuel  and 
blankets  to  the  '  believing  poor,'  as  you  call  them, 
when  I  remember  how  thinly-covered  is  poor 
Bridget's  bed,  and  how  empty  our  own  coal- 
cellar.  Still,  I  will  do  my  best,  since  you  wish 
it." 

"Do  so — there's  a  dear  girl!"  replied  he, 
carelessly  kissing  her.  "  Charity  looks  so  well 
in  a  clergyman  and  a  clergyman's  wife.  And, 
besides,  giving  to  the  poor  is  lending  to  the 
Lord." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  cast  a  keen  glance  at  her  hus- 
band— she  always  did  when  he  said  these  sort 
of  things.  She  had  begun  to  wonder  how 
much  they  meant — at  least  how  much  he  meant 
by  them,  and  whether  he  really  considered  their 
meaning  at  all.  I  am  afraid,  for  a  clergyman's 
wife,  she  was  not  as  religious  a  woman  as  she 
ought  to  have  been ;  but  she  had  had  too  much 
of  religion  when  she  lived  in  Merrion  Square. 
In  that  particular  set  to  which  her  husband  be- 
longed its  cant  phraseology  had  been  painfully 
dinned  into  her  ears.  She  recognized  all  the 
intrinsic  goodness  of  the  Evangelical  sect,  their 
sincere  and  earnest  piety ;  but  she  often  wished 
they  could  do  without  a  set  of  stock  phrases — 
such  as  Edward  Scanlan  had  just  used — which 
gradually  came  to  fall  on  her  ear  as  mere  words, 
implying  nothing. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


39 


"  Lending  to  the  Lord !"  said  she.  "  I  wish 
He  would  begin  to  pay  me  back  a  little  that 
He  owes  me."  "I  wish  He  would  send  me  a 
new  pair  of  shoes  for  each  of  the  children. 
They  want  them  badly  enough." 

At  which  Mr.  Scanlan  looked  horrified,  espe- 
cially as  this  unfortunate  speech  had  been  made 
in  presence  of  his  rector,  Mr.  Oldham,  who  had 
just  come  in  for  a  call.  Possibly  he  did  not 
hear,  being  very  deaf,  and  using  hiS  deafness 
sometimes  both  conveniently  and  cleverly. 

He  was  the  one  visitor  whose  visits  never 
ceased,  and  were  always  welcome ;  for  they 
caused  no  inconvenience.  If  the  mother  were 
busy,  he  would  be  quite  content  to  talk  to  the 
children ;  who  liked  him  well  enough,  though 
they  were  a  little  afraid  of  him,  chiefly  through 
their  father's  always  impressing  upon  them  that 
they  must  behave  so  exceedingly  well  when 
they  went  to  the  Rectory,  which  was  now  al- 
most the  only  house  in  the  neighborhood  they 
did  go  to.  At  first,  when  Cesar  and  Adrienne 
had  acquired  sufficiently  walking  capabilities 
and  good  manners,  their  father  amused  himself 
by  taking  them  about  with  him  pretty  often ; 
but  being  not  angels,  only  children,  they  some- 
times vexed  him  considerably.  They  would 
get  tired  and  cross ;  or,  from  the  great  contrast 
of  living  at  home  and  abroad,  they  would  be 
tempted — poor  little  souls — to  overeat  them- 
selves, which  naturally  annoyed  the  curate 
much.  By  degrees  both  they  and  their  mother 
found  that  going  out  with  papa  was  not  un- 
mixed felicity;  so  that  when  the  habit  was 
given  up  it  was  a  relief  to  all  parties. 

Gradually  the  parents  and  children  seldom 
appeared  in  public  all  together,  except  when 
they  were  invited  to  the  Rectory — as  they  had 
been  lately — to  enjoy  a  strawberry  feast,  in  the 
garden  of  which  its  owner  was  so  justly  proud. 
"I  am  glad  you  approve  of  my  roses,  "  said 
Mr.  Oldham,  when,  with  a  half  deprecating,  half 
threatening  look  at  his  wife,  lest  she  should 
make  some  other  unlucky  observation,  Mr. 
Scanlan  had  disappeared  on  important  parish 
business.  "I  often  think,  Madame"  —  (he 
changed  his  old-fashioned  "  Madam"  into  Ma- 
dame, out  of  compliment  to  her  birth,  and  be- 
cause he  liked  to  air  his  French  a  little) — "  I 
think  my  garden  is  to  me  what  your  children 
are  to  you.  I  only  hope  it  may  be  equally 
flourishing,  and  may  reward  me  as  well  for  all 
my  care." 

The  rector  was  sitting  in  the  porch,  his  stick 
between  his  knees — he  always  wore  breeches, 
gaiters,  a  long  coat,  and  a  large  clerical  hat- 
watching  Ce'sar,  who  was  pulling  up  weeds  in 
the  somewhat  neglected  borders  in  front  of  the 
garden,  but  doing  laborer's  work  wirh  the  air 
and  mien  of  a  young  nobleman  in  disguise — a 
real  Vicomte  de  Bougainville.  One  does  see 
these  anomalies  sometimes,  though  I  grant  not 
often ;  poor  gentlefolks'  children  are  prone  to 
sink  to  the  level  of  the  ordinary  poor;  but  Jo- 
sephine had  taken  great  pains  in  the  up-bring- 
ing of  hers.     As  her  eyes  followed  the  direction 


of  Mr.  Oldham's,  and  then  both  their  eyes  met, 
there  was  in  one  countenance  a  touch  of  envy, 
in  the  other  of  pity — which  accounted  for  his 
frequent  visits  and  the  kindly  welcome  which 
she  always  gave  him. 

That  is,  of  late  years.  At  first  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan had  been  rather  shy  of  her  husband's  rec- 
tor, perhaps  like  the  children,  because  her  hus- 
band always  impressed  upon  her  the  importance 
of  being  civil  to  him.  Not  until  she  found  this 
needless — that  the  little  old  bachelor  exacted 
nothing  from  her,  and  that,  moreover,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him — did  Jose- 
phine become  as  friendly  with  Mr.  Oldham  as 
she  was  with  her  other  neighbors.  Her  cold- 
ness seemed  rather  to  amuse  him ;  nor  did  he 
ever  take  off"ense  at  it.  He  admired  opeuly  her 
beauty,  her  breeding,  her  good  sense  ;  and  with 
his  own  pedigree,  a  yard  long,  hanging  up  in 
his  hall,  it  is  probable  that  he  did  not  think  the 
less  of  his  curate's  wife  for  being  descended 
from  so  many  noble  De  Bougainvilles. 

What  the  old  rector  thought  of  his  curate 
people  never  quite  discovered.  He  kept  his 
opinion  to  himself.  When  the  parish  went 
crazy  about  Mr.  Scanlan,  his  beautiful  sermons, 
his  many  accomplishments,  Mr.  Oldham  list- 
ened, silent ;  when,  as  years  ran  on,  a  few  holes 
were  picked  in  the  curate's  coat,  he  listened, 
equally  silent.  But  he  himself  always  treated 
Mr.  Scanlan  with  pointed  respect,  courtesy,  and 
consideration. 

He  sat  watching  the  children — there  were 
four  now,  "  baby"  being  exalted  into  Louis, 
and  another  little  white  bundle  lying  across 
Mrs.  Scanlan's  lap,  as  she  sat  busy  at  her  cease- 
less needle  even  while  she  conversed  with  her 
guest. 

"Another  girl,  I  understand,  for  I  am  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  christening  her  next  Sunday. 
Are  you  offended  with  me,  Madame,  for  de- 
clining to  be  godfather?  As  you  are  aware, 
your  husband  asked  me." 

She  was  not  aware,  and  would  have  disliked 
it  extremely ;  but  she  would  not  betray  either 
fact,  and  therefore  only  smiled. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  your  eldest 
son  ?"  pointing  to  Ce'sar.  "  As  I  was  saying  to 
his  father,  it  is  high  time  he  went  to  school. 
But  Scanlan  tells  me  he  prefers  teaching  him 
himself." 

"  Yes,"  snid  Josephine,  briefly,  for  her  vis- 
itor had  touched  upon  a  sore  point.  In  ear- 
ly days  her  husband  had  been  very  proud 
of  his  "son  and  heir,"  who  was  a  fine  little 
fellow,  the  image  of  the  grandfather  whose 
name  he  bore — for  all  the  children  had  French 
names,  Mr.  Scanlan  not  caring  to  perpetuate 
the  Dennises  and  Judiths  of  his  ancestry.  He 
had  insisted  on  educating  Ce'sar  himself^who 
could  so  well  teach  a  boy  as  his  own  father? 
Only,  unfortunately,  the  father  had  no  aptitude 
for  teaching,  was  extremely  desultory  in  his 
ways,  and,  as  he  gave  the  lessons  chiefly  for 
his  own  amusement,  took  them  up  and  relin- 
quished them  whenever  it  suited  hira.     Conse- 


40 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


quently,  things  went  hard  with  little  Cesar. 
He  was  a  bright,  bold,  noble  lad,  but  he  was 
not  particularly  clever  nor  overfond  of  his  book. 
Difficulties  ensued.  Not  that  Edward  Scanlan 
was  one  of  your  brutal  fathers :  he  never  lifted 
his  hand  to  strike  his  son — I  should  have  liked 
to  have  seen  the  mother's  face  if  he  had ! — but 
he  made  her  perpetually  anxious  and  restless, 
because  "papa  and  Cesar  did  not  get  on  to- 
gether," and  because,  in  spite  of  papa's  classic- 
al acquirements,  her  big  boy,  the  pride  of  her 
heart,  was  growing  up  a  great  dunce. 

Yet  when  she  suggested  sending  him  to 
school,  Mr.  Scanlan  had  opened  eyes  of  the 
widest  astonishment.  What  necessity  was 
there?  when  he  could  teach  him  himself  at 
home.  Besides,  how  could  they  possibly  af- 
ford the  expense  of  schooling,  when  only  late- 
ly she  had  told  him,  the  father  of  the  family, 
that  he  must  do  without  a  suit  of  new  clothes 
for  another  six  months  ?  Differences  ensued, 
which  ended  in  Cesar's  remaining  another  year 
at  home,  while  his  mother  learned  Latin  in  or- 
der to  teach  him  herself.  And,  somehow  or 
other,  his  father  appeared  at  the  next  visitation 
in  a  bran-new  suit  of  best  London-made  cler- 
ical clothes,  dined  with  the  Archbishop,  and 
preached  a  sermon  on  the  text  of  "  Charity  suf- 
fereth  long  and  is  kind ;"  which  was  so  much 
admired  that  he  came  home  covered  with  glo- 
ry, and,  except  that  it  was,  fortunately,  extem- 
pore, would  have  gone  to  the  expense  of  print- 
ing and  publishing  it  immediately. 

Thus,  when  Mr.  Oldham  spoke,  Josephine 
replied  with  that  quick  "Yes,"  and  over  her 
face  came  the  shadow  which  he,  who  had  all 
the  quick  observation  which  often  belongs  to 
deaf  people,  detected  at  once,  and  changed  the 
conversation. 

"I  have  my  newly -married  cousin.  Lady 
Emma  Lascelles,  coming  with  her  husband  to 
dine  with  me  on  Thursday;  will  you  come 
too?  I  asked  Mr.  Scanlan,  and  he  accepted 
immediately." 

**0h  yes,  of  course  he  will  be  most  happy." 

*'  I  should  like  you  to  meet  Lady  Emma," 
pursued  the  old  gentleman;  "she  was  a  nice 
little  girl,  and  I  dare  say  has  grown  up  a  sweet 
young  woman.  She  will  be  sure  to  take  to 
you — I  mean,  you  will  suit  her  better  than 
most  of  the  ladies  of  Ditchley." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  curate's  wife,  smiling. 

"You  see  they  will  all  stand  in  such  awe  of 
her" — and  there  was  a  slight  satirical  expres- 
sion on  the  rector's  thin  mouth.  "It  is  not 
often  a  '  lady'  in  her  own  right  comes  our  way. 
Though  the  most  innocent  eagle  that  ever  was, 
Emma  will  flutter  our  dove-cote,  even  as  Corio- 
lanus  'fluttered  the  Volsces  in  Corioli.'  You 
will  see ! " 

"  Shall  I  ?  No  ;  I  fear  I  shall  not.  I  am 
sorry  to  decline  your  kindness,  Mr.  Oldham, 
but  you  know  I  never  go  out  now.  I  have  not 
been  at  a  dinner-party  for  years." 

"So  your  husband  said;  but  he  said  also 
that  meeting  Lady  Emma  was  an  exceptional 


case,  and  that  I  was  to  persuade  you  to  go,  as 
he  wished  it  extremely." 

"Did  he?  did  he  really?"  said  Josephine, 
with  a  sudden  glow  of  pleasure ;  she  had  not 
grown  quite  insensible  to  the  amusements  of 
life,  still  less  to  that  keenest  enjoyment  of 
them — to  a  wife — the  consciousness  that  her 
husband  likes  to  enjoy  them  with  her ;  that  he 
is  proud  of  her,  and  admires  her  himself,  be- 
sides having  a  natural  satisfaction  in  seeing 
other  people  admire  her  too.  But  scarcely 
had  she  spoken  than  the  glow  faded.  "I 
think  you  must  have  mistaken  him,  Mr.  Old- 
ham. My  husband  knows  very  well  I  do  not 
visit.     Indeed,  I  can  not  do  it." 

"Why  not?" 

The  rector  was  a  daring  man  to  put  the 
question,  but  he  had  often  wished  to  get  an 
answer  to  it.  Obseryant  as  he  was,  his  ob- 
servation only  went  a  certain  length  ;  and  in- 
timate as  Mrs.  Scanlan  now  was  with  him,  her 
intimacy  had  its  limits  too.  So  neat  was 
Wren's  Nest  whenever  he  called,  so  great  was 
its  mistress's  feminine  ingenuity  in  keeping  in 
the  back-ground  all  painful  indications  of  pov- 
erty, that  the  rich  man,  who  had  been  rich  all 
his  days,  never  guessed  but  that  his  curate  was 
exceedingly  comfortable  in  his  circumstances, 
indeed,  rather  well  off"  for  a  curate.  Thus, 
when  he  asked  "Why  not?"  he  had  no  idea 
that  he  was  putting  any  painful  or  intrusive 
question,  or  saying  any  thing  beyond  an  inno- 
cent joke,  which,  as  an  old  man  and  a  clergy- 
man, he  might  well  venture.  When  he  saw 
Mrs.  Scanlan  look  grave  and  troubled  he  drew 
back  immediately. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Pray,  do  not  answer 
me." 

"No ;  I  think  I  had  rather  answer,  once  for 
all,"  said  she,  after  a  pause.  "It  iS  but  hon- 
est, and  it  will  prevent  your  thinking  me  un- 
grateful or  rude.  I  have  given  up  visiting, 
because,  in  truth,  we  can  not  aff'ord  it." 

"I  am  aware,  Madame,"  said  Mr.  Oldham,^' 
"  that  fate,  which  has  given  you  almost  every 
thing  else,  has  denied  you  riches ;  but  I  think 
that  should  not  affect  you  socially — certainly 
not  in  the  visits  with  which  you  honor  my 
house.  Let  me  hope  still  to  see  you  on  Thurs- 
day. " 

"  I  can  not,"  she  said,  uneasily ;  then  laughing 
and  blushing,  "  If  there  were  no  other,  there  is 
one  very  ridiculous  reason.  This  is  a  grand 
bridal  party,  and  I  have  no  suitable  clothes!" 

"  Why  not  come  as  you  are?  This  is  white," 
touching,  half  reverentially,  half  paternally,  her 
dimity  dress.      "  Would  not  this  do  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  should  not  mind 
it ;  if  I  were  dressed  ever  so  plainly  I  should 
like  to  come.     But — my  husband — " 

She  stopped,  for  the  same  slightly  satirical 
expression  crossed  the  old  man's  mouth. 

"I  have  no  doubt  my  friend  Scanlan  has 
perfect  taste ;  and,  being  an  old  bachelor,  I  can 
not  be  expected  to  understand  how  husbands 
feel  on  the  subject  of  their  wives'  dress.     Still, 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


41 


if  I  had  a  wife,  and  she  looked  as  charming  as 
Madame  looks  at  this  moment,  whatever  her 
costume  might  be,  I  should —  But  Ave  will  not 
further  discuss  the  subject.  Thursday  is  a  good 
way  off;  before  then  I  shall  hope  to  bring  you 
or  your  husband,  or  both,  round  to  my  opinion. 
May  I  go  into  the  house,  Mrs.  Scanlan  ?  for  it 
is  growing  rather  chill  outside  for  an  old  man 
like  me." 

He  went  in,  and  sat  an  hour  or  more  with 
her  and  the  children ;  but,  though  he  talked  on 
indifferent  subjects,  and  asked  no  further  ques- 
tions, she  could  see  his  sharp  eyes  wandering 
here,  there,  and  every  where,  as  if  a  new  light 
had  broken  in  upon  him,  and  ho  was  anxious 
to  discover  every  thing  he  could  respecting  the 
internal  economy  of  Wren's  Nest.  Such  a 
shabby  little  nest  as  it  was  now  growing !  with 
carpets  wearing  threadbare  and  curtains  all 
darned,  and  furniture  which  had  to  be  kept 
neat  and  pretty  by  every  conceivable  device — 
all  those  things  which  a  woman's  eye  at  once 
discovers,  a  man's  never,  unless  they  are  brought 
pointedly  to  his  notice,  or  his  attention  is  awak- 
ened so  that  he  begins  to  hunt  them  out  for 
himself. 

Mr.  Oldham  talked  a  good  deal,  and  looked 
about  him  a  good  deal  more ;  but  not  a  syllable 
said  he  with  reference  to  the  matter  which,  the 
moment  she  had  referred  to  it,  Josephine  could 
have  bit  her  tongue  off  for  doing  so.  Not  that 
she  was  ashamed  of  her  poverty,  in  itself — she 
had  been  brought  up  in  too  lofty  a  school  for 
that — but  she  was  ashamed  of  the  shame  her 
husband  felt  concerning  it.  And  any  thing 
like  a  betrayal  of  it  before  his  patron  would 
have  seemed  like  begging  for  an  increase  of  in- 
come, which  she  knew  Mr.  Scanlan  desired, 
and  thought  his  just  due,  and  which  every  half- 
year  she  had  some  difficulty  to  keep  him  from 
applying  for. 

Therefore  it  was  a  real  relief  to  Josephine 
when  the  rector  said  not  a  word  more  of  the 
dinner-party,  until,  just  as  he  was  leaving,  he 
observed,  "By-the-by,  I  quite  forget,  I  had 
come  to  consult  you  upon  whom  I  should  invite 
to  meet  Lady  Emma." 

"Me!" 

"  Who  so  fitting  ?  Are  you  not  hand-in-glove 
with  all  our  neighbors  ?  Do  they  not  come  to 
you  for  advice  and  sympathy  on  all  occasions  ? 
Is  there  a  birth  or  a  death  or  a  wedding  in  the 
parish  that  you  don't  know  all  about  before  it 
happens  ?" 

"It  used  to  be  so,"  she, said,  half  amused, 
half  sadly;  "and  if  not  now,  perhaps  it  is  my 
fault.  But  tell  me  whom  you  mean  to  invite. 
I  should  like  to  hear  all  about  the  entertain- 
ment, though  I  do  not  go.  It  is  such  an  im- 
portant event  in  Ditchley,  a  dinner-party  at  the 
Rectory,  and  to  a  young  bride." 

So  she  took  pencil  and  paper,  and  made  out 
a  list  of  names,  he  dictating  them — for  the  old 
man  seemed  quite  pleased  with  his  little  out- 
burst of  hospitality — until  they  came  to  one  at 
which  Mrs.  Scanlan  stopped. 


"Dr.  and  Mrs.  Waters.  No;  that  will  be 
useless.     She — she  does  not  go  out." 

"Bless  my  soul,  I  had  forgotten.  How 
stupid  of  me!"  cried  Mr.  Oldham;  and  then 
he  too  stopped,  and  his  keen,  inquisitive  eyes 
sought  Josephine's.  But  she  had  dropped  them, 
and  was  making  idle  marks  upon  the  paper,  to 
hide  a  certain  awkwardness.  They  had  both 
evidently  hit  upon  a  subject  in  which  each  was 
uncertain  how  much  the  other  knew. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  forgotten.  My  good 
old  friend !  Of  course,  I  must  ask  him  ;  and — 
his  wife." 

"  You  had  better  ask  him  without  his  wife," 
said  Josephine,  quietly,  with  her  eyes  still  cast 
down.  "If  you  ask  her,  and  she  hears  of  it, 
she  IS  sure  to  want  to  come ;  and — she  ought 
not  to  come." 

"  I  suppose  not.  Poor  Mrs.  Waters !  she  is 
— ahem  ! — a  great  invalid." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  was  silent. 

"I  thought,"  said  the  rector,  clearing  his 
throat,  "that  my  poor  old  friend  and  I  had 
arranged  all  between  us,  so  that  nobody  in 
Ditchley  was  any  the  wiser  for  this — this  sad 
affair.  I  hate  gossip,  and  gossip  about  such  a  • 
painful  thing  would  be  hard  to  bear.  Waters 
and  I  took  every  precaution,  and  his  house  is  a 
large  house,  and  quite  out  of  the  town;  one  ^ 
would  have  thought  a  person  could  be — ill — 
there  without  the  whole  town's  knowing." 

"I  am  not  aware  that  the  town  does  know; 
I  hardly  see  how  it  can,"  said  Josephine,  gen- 
tly, for  she  saw  how  troubled  the  rector  was. 
She  well  knew  why,  only  she  had  not  expected 
so  much  warm  feeling  in  the  cold-mannered, 
lonely  old  man,  who  was  supposed  to  care  for 
nobody  but  himself. 

"  But  you  know  ?"  said  he,  anxiously.  "  Yes, 
from  your  face  now  I  am  sure  of  it.  Tell  me 
frankly,  how  much  do  you  know  ?" 

"Every  thing,  I  believe.  I  found  it  out  by 
accident." 

"How  long  since?" 

"  Six  months  ago." 

"And  you  have  never  told — not  a  creature? 
And  in  the  many  times  that  I  have  spoken  to 
you  about  the  Waters  family,  you  have  never 
once  betrayed  that  you  knew  any  thing  ?  Well, 
you  are  a  wonderful  woman — the  only  woman  I 
ever  knew  who  could  hold  her  tongue." 

"Am  I?"  said  Josephine,  smiling,  half  sad- 
ly, for  she  had  had  a  few  sharp  lessons — conju- 
gal and  domestic — before  arriving  at  that  height 
of  perfection. 

Still  anxious,  Mr.  Oldham  begged  she  would 
tell  him  exactly  what  she  knew,  and  there 
came  out  one  of  thdse  terrible  domestic  trage- 
dies, which  people  always  hide  if  they  can,  and 
which  had  hitherto  been  successfully  hidden, 
even  from  gossiping  Ditchley.  Dr.  Waters's 
wife,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  had  sudden- 
ly gone  mad,  and  tried  to  destroy  both  him  and 
herself  The  fi*  over  without  harm,  she  had 
partially  recovered,  but  still  required  to  be  kept 
in  strict  seclasion  as  a  "great  invalid,"  appear- 


42 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


A   EEMAEKAIJLE    WOMAN. 


ing  little  outside  her  own  house,  and  then  only 
with  her  so-called  "  nurse" — in  reality  her  keep- 
er. This  woman,  once  meeting  Mrs.  Scanlan 
when  she  had  lost  her  mistress  on  the  common, 
and  was  frantically  searching  for  her,  had  be- 
trayed the  whole  sad  truth,  imploring  her  to 
keep  the  secret,  which  she  did  faithfully. 

"  Even  from  your  husband?"  inquired,  rather 
pointedly,  Mr.  Oldham. 

"  Yes.  It  did  not  aifect  him,  nor  would  he 
have  taken  much  interest  in  the  matter,"  she 
answered,  half  apologetically.  She  could  not 
say  the  other  fact — that  he  would  have  told  it 
the  next  day,  quite  unwittingly,  to  every  body 
in  Ditchley.  "Besides,  I  had  promised,  and 
a  promise  ought  to  be  kept  implicitly. " 

"Certainly,  my  dear  Madame,  certainly!" 

The  old  man  sat  rubbing  his  hands,  and  look- 
ing at  her  with  great  admiration.  "  A  remark- 
able woman  —  the  most  remarkable  woman  I 
ever  knew!"  Then,  as  a  knock  came  to  the 
door,  "There  is  Scanlan  coming  home  to  his 
tea,  and  I  must  go  to  my  dinner.  I  will  just 
shake  hands  with  him,  and  depart.  Adieu,  Ma- 
dame.    Au  revoir." 

He  bowed  over  her  hand — his  quaint,  formal 
little  bow — and  disappeared. 

But  the  next  day  Mrs.  Scanlan  received  by 
coach,  from  the  largest  linen-draper's  shop  in 
the  county  town,  a  magnificent  silk  dress,  rich- 
er than  any  thing  ever  seen  in  Ditchley.  With 
it  was  an  envelope,  addressed*  to  herself,  con- 
taining these  lines,  written  in  French,  and  in 
the  delicate,  precise  hand  which  was  at  once 


recognizable  :  "  From  an  old  man,  in  token  of 
his  respect  for  a  lady  who  can  both  keep  a 
promise  and  hold  her  tongue  about  it." 

Alas !  by  this  time  there  was  no  need  for 
Mrs.  Scanlan  to  hold  her  tongue  any  longer.' 
Mrs.  Waters  had  had  another  "attack,"  during 
which  she  had  gone — Ditchley  never  quite  knew 
how — to  that  world  where  she  would  wake  up  in 
her  right  mind,  and  heaven  would  be  as  tender 
over  her  as  her  deavly-loved  and  loving  husband 
was,  to  the  last,  in  this. 

There  was  no  dinner-party  at  which  to  show 
off  the  beautiful  new  gown  ;  the  rector  was  too 
shocked  and  sad  to  give  any.  But  Lady  Emma 
came,  and  Mrs.  Scanlan  saw  her,  greatly  to  Mr. 
Scanlan's  delight.  Nay,  the  bride  praised  so 
warmly  his  Josephine  that  he  admired  her  him- 
self more  than  ever,  for  at  least  ten  days,  and 
took  great  interest  in  the  handsome  appearance 
she  would  make  in  her  new  silk  dress.  But 
Mrs.  Scanlan  herself  had  little  pleasure  in  it, 
and,  though  she  thanked  the  rector  for  it,  and 
accepted  it  kindly — as,  indeed,  the  kindness  of 
the  gift  deserved — she  laid  it  by  in  a  drawer, 
almost  as  sadly  as  if  it  had  been  a  mourning 
weed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


On  Josephine  Scanlan's  lovely  face  a  slight 
shadow  was  now  deepening  every  year  and  with  | 
every  child — for  a  child  came  almost  every  year. 
Fortunateh' — or  at  least  so  said  the  neighbors — 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


43 


but  did  the  mother  ? — fortunately,  not  all  were 
living ;  but  ere  ten  years  were  past  Wren's  Nest 
contained  six  little  nestlings,  growing  up  from 
babies  into  big  boys  and  girls — Ce'sar,  Adrienne, 
Louis,  Gabrielle,  Martin,  Catherine.  Josephine 
had  insisted  on  this  latter  name,  in  remembrance 
of  her  gentle,  kindly,  vulgar,  good  old  mother- 
in-law,  now  long  gone  to  her  rest.  Curiously 
enough,  except  Adrienne,  who  was  the  plain 
one  of  the  family,  but,  as  if  by  tender  compen- 
sation, the  sweetest  little  soul  among  them  all, 
the  whole  of  the  children  were  De  Bougain- 
villes  —  handsome,  well -grown,  graceful;  a 
young  tribe  that  any  mother  might  be  proud 
of.  And  she  was  very  proud  of  them,  and  very 
happy  in  them,  at  times — yet  still  the  shadow 
in  her  face  grew  and  grew. 

Tliere  is  a  portrait  of  her,  taken  about  this 
time,  I  believe,  by  a  wandering  artist  who  had 
settled  for  the  summer  at  Ditchley,  and  with 
whom  the  curate  struck  up  one  of  his  sudden 
friendships.  Mr.  Summerhayes,  attracted  by 
Mrs.  Scanlan's  beauty,  requested  permission  to 
paint  her,  and  afterward,  out  of  politeness, 
painted,  as  a  companion  picture,  her  husband 
likewise. 

The  two  heads  are  very  characteristic.  The 
one  is  full  of  a  lovely  gravity,  nay,  something 
more,  for  the  expression  is  anxious  even  to  se- 
verity ;  in  the  other  is  that  careless  insouciance 
which  may  be  charming  in  itself,  but  which  has 
the  result  of  creating  in  other  people  its  very 
opposite.  That  painful  earnestness  about  great 
things  and  small,  that  unnatural  and  exagger- 
ated "taking  thought  for  the  morrow,"  which 
sometimes  grows  to  be  an  actual  misfortune,  so 
as  to  make  the  misery  of  to-day — might  never 
have  come  to  Josephine,  if  her  Edward  had 
been  blessed  with  a  little  more  of  these  quali- 
ties. There  is  no  need  to  do  more  than  look 
at  the  two  portraits,  speaking  so  plainly  through 
the  silence  of  years,  in  order  to  detect  at  once 
the  secret  of  their  married  life ;  how  that  the 
burden  which  the  man  shirked  and  shrunk 
from  the  woman  had  to  take  up  and  bear. 
Josephine  Scanlan  did  this,  and  did  it  to  the 
end. 

Without  murmuring  either,  except,  perhaps, 
just  at  the  first.  Tliere  might  have  been  a 
season  when,  like  most  young  wives  and  many- 
childed  mothers,  she  had  expected  to  be  cher- 
ished and  taken  care  of;  to  be  protected  as  well 
as  loved';  helped  as  well  as  admired  ;  but  that 
time  had  passed  by.  Not  without  a  struggle ; 
still  it  did  pass,  and  she  accepted  her  destiny ; 
accepted  it  as  a  fact ;  nay,  more,  as  a  natural 
necessity.  She  was  young  and  strong;  phys- 
ically, quite  as  strong  as  her  husband,  delicate 
though  her  appearance  was ;  morally,  no  person 
who  was  in  their  company  for  an  hour  could 
have  doubted  the  relative  calibre  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Scanlan.  A  man  is  not  necessarily  "a 
man,"  in  the  true  spiritual  sense,  because  he 
happens  to  wear  coat  and  trowsers ;  nor  is  a  wo- 
man always  of  the  "  weaker  sex"  because  she 
has  a  soft  voice,  a  quiet  manner,  a  feeble  and 


feminine  frame.  I  have  seen  many  and  many 
a  couple  in  which,  without  any  great  external 
show  of  the  thing.  Nature  seemed  to  have 
adapted  herself  to  circumstances,  and  "turned 
the  tables"  in  a  most  wonderful  way  between 
husbands  and  wives,  giving  to  the  one  where- 
withal to  supply  the  other's  lack ;  and  that  so 
gradually,  so  imperceptibly,  that  they  them- 
selves scarcely  recognized  how  completely  they 
had  changed  places — the  man  becoming  tho 
woman,  and  the  woman  the  man.  A  sad  sight, 
theoretically :  but,  practically,  often  not  so  sad 
as  it  seems. 

Possibly  Mrs.  Scanlan  grew  to  be  dimly  con- 
scious of  one  fact  as  concerned  herself  and  her 
husband — that,  whether  or  not  she  was  the  clev- 
erer, he  being  always  considered  such  a  brilliant 
and  talented  young  man — she  was  certainly  the 
stronger,  Aviser,  more  sensible  of  the  two.  But 
at  any  rate  she  experienced  its  results,  and  ac- 
cepted them,  and  the  additional  duties  they  in- 
volved, with  a  great,  silent  courage,  such  as  the 
urgency  of  the  case  demanded.  For  she  was 
a  mother,  and  mothers  must  never  know  either 
despondency  or  fear. 

If  she  began  to  look  anxious  and  care-worn, 
so  care-worn  that  it  spoiled  her  beauty  and 
made  her  husband  gradually  become  indiffer- 
ent to  whatever  sort  of  dress  she  wore,  it  was 
no  wonder.  The  mere  thought  of  her  chil- 
dren was  enough  to  weigh  her  down  night  and 
day ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  incessant  physical 
weariness  of  taking  care  of  so  many  little  folk, 
bright,  loving,  mischievous  monkeys,  who  had 
all  the  activity  of  healthy,  country-bred  chil- 
dren, placed  under  the  very  simplest  discipline, 
and  a  discipline  that  was,  of  necessity,  wholly 
maternal ;  for  the  father  took  less  and  less  no- 
tice of  them  every  day. 

She  did  not  spoil  them,  I  think — at  least 
Bridget  ])rotested  she  never  did ;  that  she  al- 
ways kept  a  wholesome  authority  over  them, 
and  never  indulged  them  in  any  way.  Poor 
little  souls !  there  was  small  opportunity  for  in- 
dulgence in  their  primitive,  all  but  penurious 
life ;  but  she  was  obliged  to  see  them  growing 
up  around  her  almost  as  wild  as  young  colts ;  .  .' 
deprived  of  every  advantage  which  good  food,  * 
good  clothes,  good  society,  and,  above  all,  good 
education,  give  to  young  people ;  that  uncon- 
scious influence  of  outward  things,  which  affects 
children,  even  at  that  early  age,  far  more  than 
we  suspect. 

Their  mother  saw  all  this ;  knew  all  that  they 
lacked — which  she  would  have  given  any  thing 
to  provide  them  with.  Yet  here  she  was,  bound 
hand  and  foot  with  the  iron  bands  of  poverty ; 
able  to  do  almost  nothing  for  them,  except  love 
them.  She  did  that.  God  only  knows  how  a 
mother's  heart  goes  out  to  her  children — with 
a  perfect  torrent  of  passionate  devotedness — 
when  in  its  other  channel,  deepest  and  holiest 
of  all,  the  natural  stream  is  slowly  drying  up ; 
or  becoming,  as  Wordsworth  mournfully  sings 
of  it,  no  longer  a  living  fountain,  but 

"A  comfortless  and  hidden  weU." 


H 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


I  have  no  right  to  take  any  thing  for  grant- 
ed— but  straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows 
— and  I  find  in  Mrs.  Scanlan's  journal,  hidden 
under  its  safe  French,  many  a  sentence  such  as 
this,  which  betrays  a  good  deal  more  than  ap- 
pears on  the  surface  ; 

"  My  poor  Adrienne  is  ailing,  wliich  casts  a 
gloom  over  the  whole  house,  and  makes  me 
busier  than  ever ;  for  she  has  grown  to  be  such 
a  help  to  her  mother,  dear  child!  I  wish  I 
could  take  her  to  the  sea,  if  only  for  a  week ; 
but  how  could  I  leave  home — leave  papa  all  to 
himself?  Things  would  be  sure  to  go  wrong 
if  I  did  ;  and  besides,  Edward  would  be  so  very 
uncomfortable.  Nor  should  I  like  to  propose 
it ;  for  it  would  cost  a  deal  of  money — nearly 
as  much  as  that  pi'ojected  journey  of  his  to 
London  with  Mr.  Summerhayes,  against  which 
I  have  set  my  face  so  firmly,  telling  him  he 
must  give  it  up ;  we  could  not  possibly  afford 
it. 

"Nor  can  we.  Even  with  all  the  lighten- 
ing of  my  housekeeping  through  Mr.  Oldham's 
kindness"  (the  rector  had  long  ago  given  the 
children  what  he  called  "a  quarter  of  a  cow," 
namely,  a  can  of  new  milk  daily,  with  eggs  and 
butter,  fruit  and  vegetables  in  unlimited  sup- 
ply, from  his  own  farm  and  garden) — "even 
with  all  this  I  shall  scarcely  succeed  in  making 
ends  meet  this  Christmas ;  and  if  we  have  any 
extraneous  expenses  out  of  the  house  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  pay  our  Christmas  bills.  And 
oh  !  what  a  terrible  thing  that  Avould  be — sorer 
than  any  thing  which  has  yet  happened  to  us !" 

Sore  things  had  happened  them  occasional- 
ly ;  but  she  rarely  noted  them  down  except  by 
implication.     This,  perhaps,  was  one  of  them  ; 

"Cesar,  mon  petit  Cesar,  wearies  me  to  let 
him  learn  drawing  of  Mr.  Summerhayes.  Not 
that  he  has  any  particular  talent  for  it,  but  it 
amuses  him,  and  he  likes  it  better  than  his  book. 
And  it  takes  him  away  from  home — from  our 
poor  little  house — going  sketching  about  the 
country  with  papa  and  Mr.  Summerhayes.  Not 
that  they  do  much  work  ;  indeed,  I  think  Mr. 
Summerhayes  has  little  need  to  work — he  is  not 
a  '  ])Oor'  artist  a])parently ;  but  it  is  a  lively, 
wandering,  pleasant  life,  such  as  most  men  take 
to  eagerly.  I  wish  Edward  did  not  take  to  it 
quite  so  much ;  it  does  no  good,  and  it  is  very 
expensive.  I  myself  have  no  great  faith,  nor  a 
very  warm  interest  in  this  Mr.  Summerhayes. 
Still,  he  is  a  i)leasant  young  fellow  enough :  my 
husband  likes  him,  and  so  do  my  children,  es- 
pecially my  two  eldest.  Poor  little  Adrienne, 
who  at  eleven  years  old  is  twice  as  clever  as 
lier  brother  in  her  drawing  as  in  other  things, 
though  she  is  such  a  tiny  dot  of  a  child — Adri- 
enne, I  see,  quite  adores  Mr.  Summerhayes." 

"My"  children — alas!  a  deep  meaning  lies 
imder  that  small  word,  that  unimpressive,  ap- 
parently unimportant  "  my." 

There  came  a  period  in  Mrs.  Scanlan's  mar- 
riage— as  it  does  in  many  a  marriage  which 
looks  comfortable  enough  to  the  world  and  jogs 
on  fairly  to  the  last — when  the  wife  was  gradu- 


ally becoming  absorbed  in  the  mother. — Now 
a  voice  at  my  elbow,  and  one  I  can  not  choose 
but  listen  to,  knowing  it  is  often  both  wiser  and 
tenderer  than  my  own,  whispers  that  this  is  a 
wrong  thing,  a  wicked  thing — that  any  woman 
who  deliberately  prefers  her  children  to  her  hus- 
band is  unworthy  the  name  of  wife.  To  which  I 
reply  that  no  man  worthy  the  name  of  husband 
need  ever  fear  that  his  wife  will  love  him  less 
than  she  loves  her  children — the  thing  is  unnat- 
ural, improbable,  impossible.  But  all  the  shams 
in  the  world  will  not  exalt  an  unworthy  husband 
into  a  position  which,  even  if  he  had  it,  he  could 
not  keep.  He  will  find  his  level,  and  the  chil- 
dren will  find  theirs,  in  the  heart  which  is  never 
likely  to  be  very  false  to  either.' 

But  of  that  mysterious  thing,  love,  it  is  as 
true  as  it  is  of  most  other  things — what  people 
win  they  must  earn.  When  Josephine  de  Bou- 
gainville married  Edward  Scanlan  she  was  a 
mere  girl,  little  beyond  a  child,  and  he  a  groAvn 
man — at  least  he  considered  himself  as  such. 
When  she  developed  into  the  woman  that  she 
was,  a  creature  embodying  more  than  any  one  I 
ever  knew  Wordsworth's  picture  of 

"A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command, " 

he  remaining  still  what  he  was,  an  average  young 
man,  no  better  than  most  young  men  and  infe- 
rior to  many — the  diff'erence  between  the  two 
showed  fearfully  plain.  Less  in  their  mental 
than  in  their  moral  stature:  Edward  Scanlan 
was  a  very  clever  fellow  in  his  way ;  brilliant 
with  all  Hibernian  brilliancy,  and  the  Hibernian 
aptitude  of  putting  every  talent  well  forward,  so 
that,  like  the  shops  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  the 
Palais  Royal — all  the  jewelry  was  in  the  win- 
dows. Of  mere  brains  he  had  quite  as  much 
as  she;  or  even^if  he  had  not  it  would  have 
mattered  little.  Many  a  clever  woman  loves 
passionately  a  not  particularly  clever  man,  when 
she  sees  in  his  nature  something  which  is  dif- 
ferent from  and  nobler  than  her  own.  And 
seeing  this  she  can  always  place  herself,  quite 
naturally,  in  the  inferior  attitude,  which  to  all 
women  and  wives  is  at  once  so  delicious  and  so 
indispensable. 

But  to  wake  up  from  that  love-dream  and 
find  that  its  object  is  quite  another  sort  of  per- 
son from  what  he  was  fondly  imagined  to  be ; 
that  her  aff'ection  toward  him  must,  if  it  is  to 
continue  at  all,  entirely  change  its  character, 
and  become  not  a  loving  up  but  a  loving  doAvn 
— an  excusing  of  weaknesses,  a  covering  over 
of  faults,  perhaps  a  deliberate  jjardoning  of  sins 
— this  must  be,  to  any  wife,  a  most  awful  blow. 
Yet  it  has  happened,  hundreds  of  times ;  and 
women  have  survived  it,  even  as  they  survive 
love-disappointments,  and  losses  by  death,  and 
other  agonizing  sorrows,  by  whick  Heaven 
teaches  us  poor  mortals  that  here  is  not  our 
rest;  and  that,  deeper  than  any  thing  stock 
phraseology  can  teach,  comes  back  and  back 
upon  us  the  lesson  of  life — to  lay  up  our  treas- 
ure not  overmuch  in  this  world,  but  in  that 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


45 


world  "where  neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  cor- 
rupt, and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through 
nor  steal." 

The  blow  falls,  but,  happily,  it  seldom  falls 
suddenly.  And  being  so  utterly  irremediable, 
women,  especially  those  who  have  children,  be- 
come reconciled  to  it;  make  the  best  of  it; 
take  it  as  other  women  have  done  before  them, 
and  pass  gradually  out  of  its  first  blinding  dark- 
ness into  that  twilight  stage  of  much-cnduring 
matrimony,  which  seems  to  be  the  lot  of  so 
many,  and  with  which  so  many  are  apparently 
(l«ite  content.  Nevertheless,  to  those  happy 
wives  who,  thank  God !  know  what  it  is  to 
live  daily  and  hourly  in  the  full  daylight  of 
satisfied  love,  such  a  region  appears  only  a 
better  sort  of  Hades,  peopled  with  the  flitting 
ghosts  of  departed  joys. 

Into  that  silent  valley  of  endless  shade  the 
young  matron,  Josephine  Scanlan,  had  slowly 
passed. 

I  do  not  allege  that  her  husband  was  unkind 
to  her :  personal  unkindness  was  not  in  his  na- 
ture ;  he  was  far  too  easy  and  good-tempered 
for  that.  It  would  almost  have  been  better  if 
he  had  been  a  little  unkind  sometimes.  Many 
a  bad-tempered  man  is  not  essentially  a  bad 
man,  and  a  woman  like  Josephine  could  have 
borne  patiently  some  small  ill-usage,  had  it 
come  from  a  husband  whom  in  other  things 
she  could  deeply  respect.  I  have  heard  her 
siay  sometimes,  *'  that  common  men  break  their 
wives'  heads,  and  gentlemen  their  hearts :  and 
the  former  was  a  less  heinous  crime  than  the 
latter."  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  think  she  herself 
would  have  borne  any  personal  wrong  easier 
than  to  sit  still  and  endure  the  maddening 
sight  of  watching  her  youth's  idol  slowly  crum- 
ble down  into  the  very  commonest  of  clay. 

It  may  be  urged,  first,  why  did  she  set  him 
up  as  an  idol,  when  he  was  ^t  an  ordinary 
man  ?  Well,  that  may  have  been  a  very  silly 
thing,  yet  do  not  all  women  do  it  ?  And  would 
tlieir  love  be  much  worth  having  if  they  did  not 
do  it? — Secondly,  finding  him  to  be  what  he 
was,  why  did  she  not  try  to  improve  him  ? 

It  is  a  melancholy  fact  that  some  men  can 
not  be  improved.  A  strong  nature,  warped  to 
evil,  may  be  gradually  bent  back  again  to  good  ; 
but  over  a  weak  nature  no  person  has  any  pow- 
er; there  is  nothing  to  catch  hold  of;  it  is  like 
throwing  out  the  ship's  sheet-anchor  into  shift- 
ing sands.  Edward  Scanlan's  higher  impulses 
were  as  little  permanent  as  his  lower  ones. 
"Unstable  as  water  thou  shalt  not  excel,"  had 
been  his  curse  through  life ;  though — so  bright 
and  sweet  are  the  self-delusions  of  youth — it 
was  not  for  some  years  that  his  wife  discovered 
it. 

And,  mercifully,  Ditchley  did  not  discover 
it  at  all,  at  least  not  for  a  long  time.  It  was 
I  one  of  those  failings  which  do  not  show  out- 
side. He  was  still  the  most  interesting  of  men 
and  of  clergymen ;  played  first  fiddle  in  all  so- 
cieties '^  and  if  he  did  hang  up  that  invaluable 
instrument  at  his  own  door,  why,  nobody  was 


any  the  wiser  :  his  wife  never  told.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  it  was  rather  a  comfort  to  her  to  have 
the  fiddling  silenced  within  the  house — it  would 
have  been  such  a  cruel  contrast  to  the  struggle 
that  went  on  there :  the  continual  battle  with 
toil,  poverty,  and  grinding  care. 

The  one  bit  of  sunshine  at  Wren's  Nest  was 
undoubtedly  the  children.  Rough  as  they  were, 
they  were  very  good  children,  better  than  many 
rich  men's  offspring  in  their  self-denial,  self-de- 
pendence, and  uncomplaining  gayety  amidst  all 
deprivations,  which  they,  however,  having  nev- 
er known  any  thing  better,  did  not  much  feel. 
Here,  too,  the  Irish  light-heartedness  of  their 
faithful  Bridget  stood  them  in  good  stead ;  and 
their  mother's  French  adaptability  taught  them 
to  make  the  best  of  things.  The  little  girls  be- 
gan to  do  house-work,  sew,  and  mind  the  baby; 
the  little  boys  to  garden  and  help  their  mother 
in  all  sorts  of  domestic  ways;  and  this  at  an 
age  when  most  children  are  still  in  a  state  of 
nursery  helplessness,  or  worse.  The  incessant 
activity  of  little  people,  which  in  well-to-do 
households  finds  no  outlet  but  mischievousness, 
here  was  always  led  into  a  useful  channel,  and 
so  did  good  instead  of  harm.  Work  became 
their  play,  and  to  "  help  mother"  their  favorite 
amusement.  She  has  many  an  entry  in  her 
diary  concerning  them,  such  as  this : 

"This  morning,  Adrienne,  standing  on  a 
stool  at  my  ironing-table,  began  to  iron  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  and  really,  for  her  first  attempt, 
did  it  quite  beautiful.  She  was  so  proud  ;  she 
means  to  do  it  every  week  now,  and  I  mean  to 
let  her,  provided  it  does  not  injure  her  poor 
back,  which  not  yet  is  as  strong  as  it  should 
be.  I  shall  not,  however,  allow  her  to  carry 
the  next  baby."  Alas!  the  " next"  baby. 
Or  this : 

"  Ce'sar  and  Louis  went  up  to  the  Rectory 
all  by  themselves,  to  fetch  a  great  bundle  of 
young  cauliflowers,  which  my  children  are  so 
fond  of,  saying,  when  I  cook  them  a  la  Fran- 
ffaise,  meat  at  dinner  is  quite  unnecessary.  They 
planted  them  all  by  themselves,  too.  Papa  said 
he  would  show  them  how,  but  he  happened  to 
be  out.  He  takes  very  little  interest  in  the 
garden ;  but  my  two  boys  are  born  gardeners, 
and  love  every  inch  of  the  ground,  and  every 
living  thing  upon  it.  .1  wish  they  may  make  it 
produce  more  than  it  does,  and  then  we  need 
not  accept  so  much  from  the  Rectory.  It  is 
always  a  bad  thing  to  be  too  much  dependent 
upon  even  the  kindliest  of  neighbors ;  and  so 
I  often  say  to  the  children,  telling *them  they 
must  learn  to  shift  for  themselves — as  assuredly 
they  will  have  to  do — and  try  and  be  as  inde- 
pendent as  possible. 

"I  had  to  tell  them  yesterday  that  they  must 
try  and  do  without  sugar  to  their  tea — grocery 
is  so  very  dear  now.  They  pulled  a  wry  face 
or  two  at  the  first  cup,  but  afterward  they  did 
not  complain  at  all,  saying  '  that  what  mother 
did,  surely  they  could  do.'  My  children  are 
such  exceedingly  good  children." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  finding,  young  as  they 


46 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


HELPING   MOTUEE. 


were,  she  could  actually  respect  and  trust  them 
more  than  she  could  their  father,  she  gradually 
loved  them  best.  A  mournful  truth  ;  but  does 
any  mother  wonder  at  it  ?     I,  for  one,  do  not. 

No  household  is  very  dreary  so  long  as  it  has 
children  in  it — good  children,  and  merry  with 
all  the  mirth  of  youth.  The  little  Scanlans 
must  have  had  their  fill  of  mirth ;  their  happi- 
ness made  their  mother  happy  also,  in  a  sort 
of  reflected  way.  She  was  still  young  enough 
to  become  a  child  with  them,  to  share  in  all 
their  holiday  frolics,  their  primrose  gatherings, 
hay-makings,  nuttings,  skatings,  and  slidings. 
All  the  year  round  there  was  something  doing ; 
in  the  endtess  variety  which  country  children 
enjoy.  But  from  these  festivals  the  father  was 
usually  absent.  They  were  "not  in  his  line," 
he  said ;  and  when  he  did  go,  he  enjoyed  him- 
self so  little  that  the  rest  of  the  young  party 
found,  in  plain  language,  "his  room  was  better 
than  his  company."  That  grand  and  lovely 
sight — I  use  advisedly  these  strong  adjectives 
— of  a  father  taking  a  day's  pleasure  with  all 
his  children  round  him  ;  stooping  from  his  large 
worldly  pursuits  to  their  small,  unworldly  ones ; 
forgetting  himself  in  the  delight  of  making  them 


happy — with  a  happiness  which  they  will  remem- 
ber long  after  he  is  laid  in  dust — this  sight  was 
never  seen  at  Ditchley,  so  far  as  concerned  the 
Scanlan  family.  If  Ditchley  ever  noticed  the 
fact,  reasons  for  it  were  never  lacking.  Poor 
Mr.  Scanlan's  parish  duties  were  so  very  heavy; 
— it  was  quite  sad  to  think  how  mtle  he  saw  of 
his  family — how  continually  he  was  obliged  to 
be  away  from  home. 

That  was  true ;  only,  strange  to  say,  nobody 
at  home  seemed  much  to  miss  his  absence.  Per- 
haps, unconsciously,  the  little  folks  betrayed 
this ;  and,  as  they  grew  up — being  remarkably 
simple  and  straightforward  children — found  it 
difficult  not  to  let  their  father  see  that  they  had 
discovered  certain  weak  points  in  his  character 
— inaccuracies  and  exaggerations  of  speech,  self- 
ishnesses and  injustices  of  action — which  dis- 
covery could  hardly  have  been  altogether  pleas- 
ant to  Mr.  Scanlan.  He  gradually  ceased  to 
look  oftener  than  he  could  help  into  Cesar's 
honest  eyes,  which  sometimes  expressed  such 
intense  astonishment,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  at 
the  father's  words  and  ways ;  and  he  gave  up 
petting  little  Adrienne,  who  sometimesj  when 
he  did  something  that  "grieved  mother,"  fol- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


47 


lowed  him  about  the  house  with  mute  looks  of 
such  gentle  reproach  that  he  could  not  stand 
them.  His  love  of  approbation  was  so  strong 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  be  disapproved  of, 
even  by  a  child ;  but  he  did  not  try  to  amend 
matters  and  win  approval ;  he  only  got  vexed, 
and  took  the  usual  remedy  of  an  uneasy  con- 
science— he  ran  away. 

Alas  for  his  wife,  the  woman  who  had  to  ex- 
cuse him  not  only  to  herself  but  to  these  others 
— the  quick-sighted  little  people,  whose  feelings 
were  so  fresh  and  clear — what  must  her  diffi- 
culties have  been?  And  when,  all  excuses 
failing  before  her  stern  sense  of  absolute  right 
— the  justice  without  which  mercy  is  a  misera- 
ble weakness  or  a  cowardly  sham,  the  duty  to- 
ward God,  which  is  beyond  all  obedience  to 
man — she  had,  as  her  sole  resource,  to  main- 
tain a  dead  silence  toward  her  children  with 
regard  to  their  father — how  terrible  her  trial ! 

The  only  comfort  was,  that  nobody  knew  it. 
Ditchley  pitied  the  curate's  wife  for  many  things : 
because  she  had  such  narrow  means  and  such  a 
large  family ;  because,  being  such  a  charminf , 
elegant,  and  accomplished  woman,  she  was 
only  a  curate's  wife,  doomed  to  have  her  light 
hidden  under  a  bushel  all  her  days.  But  it 
never  thought  of  pitying  her  for  the  one  only 
thing  for  which  she  would  have  pitied  herself — 
the  blank  in  her  heart  where  an  idol  should  have 
been — the  sad  silence  there  instead  of  singing 
— the  dull  patience  and  forbearance  which  had 
taken  the  place  of  joy  and  love. 

No  wonder  that  her  beauty  began  to  fade, 
that  her  cheerfulness  declined,  or  was  only 
prominent  in  her  intercourse  with  children — 
her  own  and  other  people's.  Grown-up  people 
she  rather  avoided  ;  her  neighbors,  with  whom 
she  had  been  so  popular  once,  said  among  them- 
selves that  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  not  quite  so  pleas- 
ant as  she  used  to  be ;  was  overridden  by  do- 
mestic cares,  and  growing  rather  unsocial,  hard, 
and  cold.  Nay,  some  of  them  sympathized  with 
her  husband  in  having  so  little  of  a  companion 
in  his  wife,  and  quite  understood  how  it  was  he 
went  out  so  much,  and  alone ;  one  or  two  mar- 
ried ladies,  who  were  very  well  off  and  had  no 
children,  blamed  her  openly  for  this ;  anct  said 
it  was  "  all  her  fault  if  Mr.  Scanlan  went  too 
much  into  society." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  heard  it,  of  course.  Birds  of 
the  air  always  carry  such  a  matter.  She  heard, 
and  set  her  lips  together  in  that  stern  hard  line 
which  was  becoming  natural  to  them — but  she 
said  not  a  word.  She  never  defended  herself 
at  all,  either  then  or  afterward.  So,  by  de- 
grees, the  kindliest  of  the  Ditchley  ladies  left 
her  to  herself,  to  carrj-  out  her  lonely  life  at 
Wren's  Nest,  which  was  a  good  mile  away  from 
the  town  and  its  prying  gossip.  Often  she 
passed  days  and  weeks  without  receiving  a  sin- 
gle visitor,  and  then  the  visiting  was  confined 
to  an  exchange  of  calls,  at  long  intervals,  kept 
up,  Ditchley  owned,  for  civility's  sake,  and  chief- 
ly out  of  respect  to  Mr.  Scanlan.  Ho  was  pop- 
ular enough ;  not  run  after  quite  as  much  as  at 


first,  perhaps,  yet  still  very  well  liked  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  always  welcome  in  any  soci- 
ety. But  it  was  such  exceedingly  up-hill  work 
keeping  up  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

One  person,  however,  maintained  toward  her 
a  firm  fidelity,  and  that  was  the  rector.  Not 
that  he  showed  it  in  any  strongly  demonstrative 
way — he  was  by  no  means  a  demonstrative  man 
— but  he  always  spoke  of  her  in  the  highest 
terms,  as  "a  first-rate  woman,"  and  specially 
"a  woman  who  could  hold  her  tongue."  And 
though,  from  something  she  let  fall  in  thanking 
him  for  her  silk  dress,  he  delicately  forbore  mak- 
ing her  any  more  personal  presents,  his  thought- 
ful kindness  with  regard  to  the  children  was 
continual. 

He  did  not  raise  his  curate's  salary,  in  spite 
of  many  a  broad  hint  from  that  gentleman ;  but 
he  helped  the  household  in  many  a  quiet  way, 
often  obvious  to  no  one  but  the  mistress  of  it — 
and  to  Bridget,  who  had  a  very  great  respect 
for  Mr.  Oldham — at  least  so  far  as  was  consist- 
ent with  her  evident  and  outspoken  disapproba- 
tion of  men  as  a  race,  and  especially  as  clergy- 
men. 

"I'd  like  to  put  my  missis  in  the  pulpit," 
said  this  excellent  woman,  who  lived  before  the 
great  question  of  women's  rights  was  broached. 
"I  wonder  what  she'd  say?  Any  how,  she'd 
say  it  better  than  most  men ;  and  she'd  act  up 
to  it  too,  which  isn't  always  the  way  with  your 
parsons.  Their  religion's  in  their  head  and  in 
their  mouths ;  I'd  like  to  see  it  a  bit  plainer  in 
their  lives." 

This  may  show  that  the  curate's  was  not  ex- 
actly a  "religious"  family.  They  kept  up  all 
the  forms  of  piety ;  had  prayers  twice  a  day, 
and  so  on ;  the  Bible,  lying  always  open  on  Mr. 
Scanlan's  desk,  and  tossing  about  in  his  coat- 
pockets,  was  read  aloud  enough,  especially  the 
Epistles,  for  all  the  household  to  know  it^  by 
heart.  But  Bridget  once  told  me  her  mistress 
had  confessed  that,  for  years,  to  hear  certain 
portions  of  the  Bible  read  actually  turned  her 
sick,  until  she  had  laid  it  aside  long  enough  to 
come  to  it  with  a  fresh  and  understanding  soul, 
free  from  all  the  painful  associations  of  the  past. 

And  so  the  Scanlan  household  struggled  on, 
living  "from  hand  to  mouth"  —  with  often  a 
wide  space  between  the  hand  and  the  mouth; 
while  many  a  time  it  needed  all  Josephine's 
vigilance  to  take  care  that  even  the  hand  which 
led  to  the  mouth — those  poor  hungry  mouths  of 
her  dear  children ! — should  be  strictly  an  honest 
hand.  For  that  creed  of  the  De  Bougainvilles, 
^'■Noblesse  oblige"  which  held  that  a  gentleman 
may  starve,  but  he  must  neither  beg  nor  borrow 
— this  creed  was  not  the  creed  of  the  Scanlan 
family.  It  was  Mrs.  Scanlan's  hardest  trial  to 
keep  sternly  before  her  children's  eyes  that 
code  of  honor  which  her  husband  talked  about, 
but  neither  practiced  nor  believed  in.  And 
when  at  last  the  climax  came — when  their  "  dif- 
ficulties" increased  so  much  that  it  was  obvious 
the  year's  income  could  not  possibly  meet  the 
year's  expenses — then  she  recognized  fully  what 


48 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


a  death-blow  it  is  to  all  conjugal  peace  and  do- 
mestic union  when  the  husband  holds  one  stand- 
ard of  right  and  the  wife  another ;  or,  rather, 
when  it  is  the  wife  only  who  has  any  fixed  stand- 
ard of  right  at  all. 

As  usual,  the  collapse  came  suddenly — that 
is,  the  discovery  of  it ;  for  Mr.  Scanlan  would 
go  on  for  days  and  weeks  playing  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice  rather  than  acknowledge  it  was 
a  precipice,  or  speak  of  it  as  such.  He  disliked 
even  to  open  his  lips  on  what  he  called  "un- 
pleasant subjects. "  He  left  all  these  to  his  wife. 
"Do  you  manage  it,  my  dear,"  he  would  say; 
"you  manage  so  beautifully."  The  little  flat- 
tery only  now  awoke  in  her  a  passing  smile,  but 
she  managed  the  troubles  for  all  that. 

At  length  a  day  came  when  she  could  not 
manage  them  any  longer ;  when  she  was  obliged 
to  insist  upon  her  husband's  speaking  out  his 
mind  to  her  upon  the  critical  position  of  their 
affairs. 

Very  much  astonished  was  poor  Mr.  Scanlan ! 
Surely  this  pressure  must  be  all  a  mistake, 
springing  from  his  wife's  overweening  anxiety 
about  money-matters;  an  anxiety  common  to 
all  mothers,  he  thought. 

"It  is  not  a  mistake,"  said  she,  calmly, 
though  with  a  hot  cheek.     "  See  there !" 

And  she  laid  before  him,  written  out,  in 
plain  black  and  white,  all  the  sums  they  owed, 
and  all  the  money  they  had  in  hand  to  meet 
them.     Alas !  it  was  a  heavy  deficit. 

Mr.  Scanlan  took  up  the  paper  carelessly. 
"How  neatly  you  have  set  it  all  down,  and 
what  capital  arithmetic!  Really,  Josephine, 
you  ought  to  apply  for  a  situation  as  clerk  and 
book-keeper  somewhere." 

"I  wish  I  could!"  said  she,  beneath  her 
breath ;  but  her  husband  either  did  not  or 
would  not  hear.     Still  he  looked  a  little  vexed. 

"You  should  have  told  me  this  before,  my 
dear ! " 

"I  have  told  you,  but  you  said  it  did  not 
matter,  and  that  I  was  not  to  trouble  you  with 
it.  Nor  would  I  have  done  so,  till  the  last  ex- 
tremity." 

"I  can't  conceive  what  you  mean  by  the  last 
extremity.  And  how  has  it  all  come  about? 
It  must  be  your  fault,  for  you  manage  every 
thing  and  spend  every  thing. " 

"  Not  quite,"  said  she,  and  put  before  him 
a  second  list  of  figures,  in  two  lines,  headed 
severally  "House  expenses"  and  "Papa's  ex- 
penses." It  was  remarkable  how  equal  the 
sum  total  of  each  was ;  and,  naturally,  this 
fact  made  papa  very  angry.  He  burst  out  into 
some  very  bitter  words,  which  his  wife  received 
in  stolid  silence. 

I  do  not  here  praise  Josephine  Scanlan;  I 
think  she  must  have  gradually  got  into  a  hard 
way  of  saying  and  doing  things,  which,  no  doubt, 
was  very  aggravating  to  the  impulsive  Irish  na- 
ture of  her  husband.  He  was  fond  of  her  still, 
in  his  sort  of  selfish  way,  and  he  liked  to  have 
her  love  and  her  approbation.  He  would  have 
been  much  better  pleased,  no  doubt,  had  she 


put  her  arms  about  his  neck  with  "Never  mind, 
dearest  Edward!"  and  passed  the  whole  thing 
over,  instead  of  standing  in  front  of  him  thus 
— the  embodiment  of  moral  right — a  sort  of 
domestic  Themis,  pointing  with  one  hand  to 
those  terrible  lines  of  figures,  and  pressing  the 
other  tightly  upon  her  heart,  the  agitated  beat- 
ing of  which  he  did  not  know.  But  she  stood 
quite  still,  betraying  no  weakness.  The  thing 
had  to  be  done,  and  she  did  it,  in  what  seemed 
to  her  the  best  and  only  way.  There  might 
have  been  another,  a  gentler  way:  but  I  do 
not  know.  Alas !  that  one  unfailing  strength 
of  a  wife,  the  power  of  appeal  to  her  husband's 
conscience,  certain  that,  even  if  he  has  erred  a 
little,  his  sense  of  duty  will  soon  right  itself; 
this  engine  of  righteous  power  was  wanting  to 
poor  Mrs.  Scanlan.  She  had  tried  it  so  often 
and  found  it  fail,  that  now  she  never  tried  it 
any  more. 

She  stood  in  dead  silence,  waiting  until  his 
torrent  of  words  had  expended  itself;  then  she 
said : 

•  "Now,  without  more  talking,  we  had  better 
see  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"Done?  Why,  what  can  we  do?  Where 
was  the  use  of  your  coming  to  me  about  all 
this  ?  I'm  not  Midas ;  I  can't  turn  pebbles 
into  pounds!"  And  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
annoyance  Mr.  Scanlan  smiled  at  his  own  apt 
illustration. 

His  wife  might  have  replied  that  to  throw 
away  pounds  like  pebbles  was  more  in  his  line, 
but  she  checked  the  sharp  answer,  and  made 
none  at  all. 

"I  can  not  imagine  what  is  to  be  done,"  he 
continued.  "If  we  had  any  relatives,  any 
friends,  to  whom  I  could  have  applied — " 

"We  have  none,  happily." 

"Why  do  you  say  happily?  But  I  know 
your  crotchets  on  this  head.  You  are  totally 
mistaken,  Josephine.  Friends  ought  to  help 
one  another.  Does  not  Scripture  itself  say, 
'Give  to  him  that  asketh,  and  from  him  that 
would  borrow  of  thee,  turn  not  thou  away. '  " 

"But  Scripture  does  not  say,  'Go  a  borrow- 
ing, knowing  all  the  while  that  you  never  can 

pay.*" 

"Nonsense!  We  should  pay  in  course  of 
time." 

"We  might,  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  risk 
the  experiment.  No ;  fortunately  for  them  and 
us,  we  have  no  friends." 

She  spoke  in  such  a  measured,  impassive 
voice  that  Mr.  Scanlan  looked  at  her,  uncer- 
tain whether  she  were  in  jest  or  earnest,  pleased 
or  vexed. 

"  You  are  an  odd  kind  of  woman,  Josephine; 
much  more  so  than  you  used  to  be.  I  can't 
understand  you  at  all.  But  come,  since  my  ^ 
idea  is  scouted,  what  plan  do  you  propose? 
I  leave  it  all  to  you,  for  I  am  sick  of  the  whole**^ 
matter."  And  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa 
with  a  weary  and  much  injured  air. 

She  sat  down  by  him,  and  suggested  a  very 
simple  scheme — selling  some  of  her  jewelry, 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


49 


which  was  valuable,  and  almost  useless  to  her 
now.  But  she  had  reckoned  without  her  host. 
The  sacrifice  which  to  Mrs.  Scanlan  had  seemed 
trifling,  to  Mr.  Scanlan  appeared  quite  dreadful. 

"What !  part  with  these  lovely  emeralds  and 
diamonds,  which  have  been  so  much  admired, 
and  which  make  you  look  well-dressed,  how- 
ever careless  you  are  in  other  ways  ?  And  sell 
them  in  Ditchley,  that  some  neighbor  may  pa- 
rade them  before  your  very  face,  and  proclaim 
to  all  the  world  how  poor  we  are  ?  Intolera- 
ble !  I  will  never  allow  it ;  you  must  not  think 
of  such  a  thing." 

But  finding  she  still  did  think  of  it,  he  took 
another  tack,  and  appealed  to  her  feelings. 

"  I  wonder  at  you !  To  sell  my  gifts,  and  my 
poor  father's  and  mother's — the  pretty  things 
you  used  to  look  so  sweet  in  when  we  were  first 
married !  Josephine,  you  must  have  the  heart 
of  a  stone ! " 

"Have  I?"  cried  she.  "I  almost  wish  I 
had. "  And  as  her  husband  put  his  arm  round 
her  she  burst  into  tears ;  upon  which  he  began 
to  caress  and  coax  her,  and  she  to  excuse  him : 
thinking,  after  all,  it  was  loving  of  him  to  wish 
not  to  part  with  these  mementoes  of  old  days. 
"Oh,  Edward!"  she  said,  leaning  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  "we  used  to  be  so  fond 
of  one  another." 

"Used  to  be?  I  hope  we  are  still.  You 
are  a  very  good  wife  to  me,  and  I  am  sure  I 
try  to  be  a  good  husband  to  you.  We  should 
never  have  these  differences  at  all,  if  you  would 
only  mind  what  I  say,  and  not  hold  to  your  own 
opinion  so  firmly.  Remember,  the  husband  is 
head  of  the  wife,  and  she  must  obey  him." 

Here  Edward  Scanlan  assumed  rather  a  lord- 
ly air,  which  he  usually  did  when  his  Josephine 
was  particularly  humble.  Like  most  men  of 
his  character,  he  resembled  that  celebrated  net- 
tle which,  if  you  "  tenderly  touch  it — " 

"stings  yon  for  your  pains; 
Bat  be  like  a  man  of  mettle  and  it  soft  as  silk  remains." 

"  It  is  no  use,  my  dear,"  continued  he ;  "  you 
must  give  in  to  me  a  little  more.  The  root  of 
all  our  miseries  is  our  being  so  poor,  which  we 
always  shall  be  while  we  stick  in  the  mud  of 
Ditchley — this  wretched  country  town,  where 
I  am  not  half  appreciated.  As  I  have  so  often 
said,  we  must  remove  to  London." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  drew  back  from  him,  turning 
so  white  that  he  was  frightened. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  ill.  Have  a  glass  of  wine. 
Bridget !     Here,  Bridget ! " 

"  Don't  call  her.  I  need  it  not.  And,  be- 
sides, there  is  no  wine  in  the  house." 

"Then  there  ought  to  be,"  returned  Mr. 
Scanlan,  angrily :  for  this  too  was  a  sore  sub- 
ject, lie  had  been  brought  up  in  the  old- 
fashioned  school  of  considering  stimulants  a 
'necessity.  Old  Mr.  Scanlan  used  to  imbibe 
his  bottle  of  port  a  day,  and  young  Mr.  Scan- 
lan his  three  or  four  glasses;  which  habit, 
Josephine,  accustomed  to  her  father's  French 
abstinence,  had  greatly  disliked,  and  succeeded 
in  breaking  him  off  from  just  in  time,  before 
D 


their  changed  circumstances  required  him  to 
do  so  as  a  point  of  economy.  He  did  it  cheer- 
fully enough,  for  he  was  no  drimkard ;  still  he 
sometimes  went  back  to  the  old  leaven,  enjoyed 
and  envied  the  wine  at  other  men's  tables,  and 
grumbled  sorely  at  the  want  of  it  at  his  own. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Josephine,  I  won't  stand 
this  miserable  penury  any  longer.  That  a  man 
like  me  should  be  hidden  in  this  hole  of  a  place, 
deprived  of  every  comfort  of  life,  and  hindered 
from  taking  his  rightful  position  in  the  world, 
is  a  very  great  shame.  It  must  be  somebody's 
fault  or  other." 

"  Whose  ?"  At  the  flash  of  her  eyes  his  own 
fell. 

"Not  youi-s,  my  dear;  I  never  meant  to  ac- 
cuse you  of  it.  Nor  the  children's — though  it 
is  an  uncomfortable  fact  that  a  man  with  a  fam- 
ily is  much  more  hampered,  and  kept  back  in 
the  world,  than  a  man  who  has  none.  Still, 
they  can't  help  it,  poor  little  things !  But  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  them, 
and  even  for  you,  if  we  had  a  wider  sphere. 
We  7nust  go  and  live  in  London." 

But  he  said  "must"  very  doubtfully,  being 
aware  of  his  wife's  mind  on  the  subject. 

This  bone  of  contention  had  been  thrown  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife  by  Mr.  Snmmer- 
hayes,  the  artist.  He  had  persuaded  Edward 
Scanlan,  who  was  easily  enough  persuaded  by 
any  body,  that  his  great  talents  for  preaching 
were  entirely  wasted  in  the  provinces ;  that  if 
he  came  to  the  metropolis,  and  rented  a  pro- 
prietary chapel,  crowds  would  flock  to  hear  him : 
Irish  eloquence  was  so  highly  appreciated.  He 
would  soon  become  as  popular  in  London  as  he 
had  been  in  Dublin,  and  derive  a  large  income 
from  his  pew-rents,  besides  being  in  a  much 
more  independent  position  as  preacher  in  a  li- 
censed Church  of  England  chapel  than  as  cu- 
rate of  a  country  parish.  At  the  time,  Jose- 
phine had  been  able  to  reason  the  scheme  out 
of  his  head,  showing  him  that  the  whole  thing 
was  a  matter  of  chance,  built  upon  premises 
which  probably  did  not  exist,  and  running  cer- 
tain risks  for  very  uncertain  benefits.  Her  ar- 
guments were  so  strong,  that,  with  his  usual 
habit  of  agreeing  with  the  last  speaker,  her 
husband  had  agreed  with  her — at  first :  still  he 
went  back  and  back  upon  the  project :  and 
whenever  he  was  restless,  or  sick,  or  dissatis- 
fied, brought  it  up  again — using  all  the  old  com- 
plainings, and  old  inducements,  just  as  if  she 
had  never  set  them  aside ;  proving,  with  that 
clear  common-sense  of  hers,  that  such  a  proj- 
ect was  worse  than  imprudent — all  but  insane. 
Still,  by  this  time  she  had  ceased  to  argue ;  she 
simply  held  her  peace — and  her  own  opinion. 

"  We  must  not  go  to  London,  Edward.  It 
would  be  utter  ruin  to  both  me,  the  children, 
and  yourself." 

"Ay,  there  it  is,"  returned  he,  bitterly; 
"  *me'  first,  the  children  second,  your  husband 
last — always  last." 

This  form  of  her  speech  had  been  purely  ac- 
cidental, and  if  it  sprung  from  an  underlying 


50 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


truth,  that  truth  was  unrecognized  by  herself. 
So,  naturally,  her  whole  soul  sprang  up  indig- 
nant at  her  husband's  injustice. 

"  I  do  not  think  of  myself  first ;  that  is  not 
my  way — not  any  mother's  way.  My  whole 
life  is  spent  for  you  and  the  children,  and  you 
know  it.  I  am  right  in  what  I  say.  And  I 
will  not  have  my  poor  lambs  carried  away  from 
here,  where  at  least  we  have  bread  to  eat,  and 
one  or  two  people  who  care  for  us,  and  taken 
up  to  London  to  starve.     I  will  not,  Edward. " 

She  spoke  so  loudly  that  Adrienne  put  her 
little  anxious  face  in  at  the  parlor  door,  asking 
"if  mother  called?"  Then  the  mother  came 
to  her  right  senses  at  once. 

"  No,  my  darling,"  she  whispered,  putting  the 
child  out,  and  shutting  the  door  after  her.  "  Run 
away ;  papa  and  I  are  busy  talking." 

Then  she  turned,  saying  gently,  "Husband, 
I  beg  your  pardon." 

"You  have  need,"  said  he,  grimly.  But  he 
was  not  of  a  grim  nature,  and  when  she  further 
made  concessions,  he  soon  came  round. 

"Nevertheless,"  she  said,  when  they  were 
quite  reconciled,  "I  hold  to  my  point.  I  can 
not  consent  to  this  scheme  of  yours,  or  rather 
of  Mr.  Summerhayes's." 

"You  are  very  unjust — you  always  were — 
to  my  friend  Summerhayes.  He  is  a  capital 
fellow,  worth  any  number  of  the  stupid  folk  of 
Ditchley — associations  quite  unfitted  for  a  man 
like  me.  But  if  you  will  have  me  thrown  away 
— bury  your  husband  all  his  life  down  here,  like 
a  diamond  in  a  dunghill — why,  take  your  way ! 
Only  you  must  also  take  the  consequences." 

"I  will!"  she  said.  And  then  her  heart 
smote  her  once  more.  She  had  been  so  furi- 
ous, Edward  so  good-tempered,  and  he  had 
yielded  to  her  so  completely,  that  her  gener- 
ous nature  recoiled  from  accepting  what  seemed 
such  a  sacrifice  from  him  to  her.  She  could 
not  have  done  it,  were  there  only  herself  to 
think  of.  But — those  six  children!  And  a 
vision  rose  up  befoie  her  of  London  as  she  had 
seen  it,  only  once  in  her  life — passing  through 
from  Ireland  to  Ditchley; — ghastly  London, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  people  can  so 
easily  die  of  want.  As,  supposing  her  hus- 
band were  unsuccessful,  her  poor  little  children 
might  die.  No,  she  could  not  consent.  Be- 
sides, what  use  would  it  be  if  she  did  ?  They 
had  no  money  whatsoever,  not  even  enough  to 
pay  the  expenses  of  the  journey. 

Still,  remorse  for  her  hardness  toward  him 
made  her  listen  patiently  to  another  scheme  of 
Mr.  Scanlan's,  which  many  a  time  lie  had  tried 
vainly  to  persuade  her  to  ;  namely,  asking  Mr. 
Oldham  for  an  increase  of  salary. 

"I  quite  deserve  it,'  said  the  curate.  "I 
do  all  the  work,  and  he  has  all  the  pay.  My 
income  is  hundreds  to  his  thousands.  I  won- 
der, by-the-way,  how  large  his  income  is,  and 
who  will  drop  in  for  it  ?  His  property  is  con- 
siderable ;  but  he  is  as  stingy  as  all  rich  men 
are.  He  would  drive  a  bargain  and  stick  to  it 
to  the  very  last." 


"I  see  no  harm  in  sticking  to  a  bargain,  if 
it  is  not  an  unfair  one,"  said  Josephine,  smil- 
ing ;  "  nor  do  I  think  Mr.  Oldham  so  very  stin- 
gy.    Think  how  kind  he  is  to  the  children!" 

"The  children,  pooh!  Has  he  ever  been 
kind  to  me?  Has  he  ever  fairly  appreciated 
my  abilities,  and  the  sacrifice  I  make  in  con- 
tinuing to  be  his  curate,  when  I  might  so  easi- 
ly—  But  I  won't  vex  you,  my  dear ;  I'll  never 
refer  to  that  subject  again." 

Nevertheless  he  did ;  being  one  of  those  peo- 
ple who  can  not  take  "  No"  for  an  answer,  or 
believe  that  "Yes"  implies  a  decision ;  but  are 
always  trusting  to  the  chance  of  other  peojjle 
being  as  weak  and  undecided  as  themselves. 
At  last,  partly  in  a  kind  of  despair,  and  partly 
because  she  really  saw  some  justice  in  the  thing, 
Mrs.  Scanlan  consented  that  the  rector  should 
be  appealed  to  for  more  salary. 

But  who  should  "bell  the  cat?" — a  rather 
unpleasant  business. 

"I  think  you  would  do  it  best,  my  dear; 
women  are  cleverer  at  these  things  than  men, 
and  you  are  such  an  extraordinarily  clever  wo- ' 
man." 

Josephine  smiled  at  the  "blarney,^"  which 
she  was  not  quite  deaf  to  yet ;  seeing  it  was 
the  blarney  of  aff'ection.  And  her  husband  d\d 
feel  great  affection  for  her  at  that  minute.  She 
had  saved  him  from  a  difiiculty ;  she  had  con- 
sented to  what  he  wanted,  and  he  was  really 
grateful  to  her,  with  that  shallow  gratitude  for 
small  mercies  and  deep  sensibility  to  tempo- 
rary reliefs  which  formed  part  of  his  insouciant 
disposition. 

And  then  she  paused  to  think  the  matter 
over.  It  was  not  her  business  certainly,  but 
her  husband's ;  still,  as  he  said,  she  would 
probably  manage  it  best.  Mr.  Oldham  was 
rather  difiicult  to  deal  with;  Edward  mighty 
vex  him  and  spoil  all.  At  any  rate,  he  dis- 
liked the  burden  of  doing  it ;  and  most  of  his  . 
burdens  had  gradually  fallen  upon  her,  till  her 
delicate  shoulders  had  grown  hardened  to  the 
weight.  How  many  another  woman  has  been 
driven  to  the  same  lot,  and  then  blamed  for 
tacitly  accepting  it;  ridiculed  as  masculine, 
strong-minded  —  the  "gray  mare,"  which  is 
called  contemptuously  the  "better  horse!" 
And  why  ?     Because  she  is  the  better  horse. 

(While  I  say  this  a  firm  arm  holds  me,  and 
a  tender  voice  suggests  that  I  am  talking  non- 
sense. But  I  can  not  be  calmly  judicial  on 
this  head.  I  know,  and  he  who  holds  me 
knows  too,  that  it  is  the  truth  I  speak ;  forced 
on  me  by  the  remembrance  of  the  sad  life  of 
my  dear  Lady  de  Bougainville.) 

"  Come,  my  darling,"  said  Edward  Scanlan, 
caressingly.  "  Please  go  to  the  Rectory  and  do 
this  difficult  business.  You  will  do  it  so  beau- 
tifully— a  thousand  times  bei^r  than  I.  For 
you  have  a  way  of  doing  and  saying  any  thing 
so  as  to  offend  nobody.  Never  was  there  a 
truer  proverb :  '  One  man  may  steal  a  sheep, 
while  another  mayn't  look  over  the  hedge.'" 

"And  so  you  want  me  to  go  and  steal  your 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


51 


sheep  for  you  ?"  said  Josephine,  laughing,  and 
clinging  to  her  husband  fondly,  in  that  vain 
hoping  against  hope  which  had  so  often  be- 
guiled her — that  if  he  were  a  richer  he  would 
be  both  a  happier  and  a  better  man ;  and  that, 
whether  or  no,  her  continuing  to  love  him  would 
help  him  to  become  all  she  wished  him  to  be. 
"  Well,  I  will  try  to  get  you  out  of  this  diffi- 
culty, and,  perhaps,  things  may  be  easier  for 
the  future.  I  will  go  and  speak  to  Mr.  Old- 
ham to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  V. 


That  to-morrow,  of  which  Josephine  Scan- 
Ian  spoke  so  calmly,  turned  out  to  be  the  crisis 
of  her  life. 

To  make  up  her  mind  to  this  visit  to  the  Rec- 
tory cost  some  pain.  It  was  like  assuming  her 
husband's  duty  ;  doing  for  him  what  he  was  too 
weak  to  do  for  himself;  and,  though  many  a 
woman  is  compelled  to  do  this,  still  it  is  only  a 
mean  sort  of  woman  who  enjoys  the  doing  of  it, 
or  likes  being  made  perforce  a  heroine  because 
her  husband  is  a  coward. 

Ay,  that  was  the  key-note  of  Edward  Scan- 
lan's  nature.  He  was  a  moral  coward.  Phys- 
ically, perhaps,  he  had  the  bravery  of  most  Irish- 
men ;  would  have  faced  the  cannon's  mouth ; 
indeed,  it  was  always  his  regret  that  he  had 
not  been  a  soldier  instead  of  a  clergyman. 
But  to  say  No  to  an  evil  or  unworthy  request ; 
to  enter  an  elegant  drawing-room  in  a  shabby 
coat ;  in  short,  to  do  any  thing  awkward,  un- 
pleasant, or  painful,  was  to  him  quite  impos- 
sible— as  impossible  as  it  would  have  been  to 
his  wife  to  go  away  and  leave  it  undone. 

She  knew  this  well ;  it  had  been  forced  upon 
her  through  years  of  bitter  experience,  and, 
therefore,  she  nei-ved  herself  to  undergo  her 
double  humiliation :  that  of  asking  a  favor 
which  might  not  be  granted,  and  of  reading 
in  the  rector's  shrewd  eyes,  though  he  might 
be  too  courteous  to  say  it,  the  knowledge  that 
her  husband,  and  not  she,  was  the  person  who 
ought  to  have  come  and  asked  it.  She  knew, 
too,  that  all  sorts  of  common-sense  questions 
might  be  put  to  her.  Why  could  they  not  make 
ends  meet  ? — other  people  did  who  were  no  bet- 
ter off  than  they,  and  had  as  many  children. 
Perhaps,  too,  even  Mr.  Oldham  would  side  with 
the  opinions  of  the  other  two  men — Mr.  Scanlan 
and  Mr.  Summerhayes — against  her — only  a 
woman !  and  recommend  that  they  should  try 
to  better  themselves  by  seeking  their  fortune  in 
London. 

Seeking  one's  fortune !  A  bright,  bold,  happy 
thing  to  do — for  a  young  woman  with  her  young 
husband,  in  whom  she  has  full  faith,  and  for 
whom  she  is  ready  to  give  up  every  thing  and 
follow  him  cheerfully,  in  weal  or  woe,  through- 
out the  world.  Ten  years  ago  Josephine  Scan- 
lan would  have  done  it  gladly  with  the  Edward 
Scanlan  whom  she  then  believed  in — Now  ? 

She  could  not  do  it ;  she  dared  not.     With 


those  six  little  ones  intrusted  to  her  charge ; 
sent  to  her  by  God  Himself,  to  be  her  crown  of 
comfort,  to  keep  her  heart  warm,  and  open  a 
dim  vista  of  joy  in  the  heavy  future,  which 
otherwise  might  have  closed  blankly  upon  her 
like  the  dead  wall  of  a  cave — no,  it  was  impos- 
sible. 

The  thought  of  them,  and  this  only  alterna- 
tive of  saving  them  from  what  she  felt  would 
be  utter  ruin,  beat  down  the  cruel  feeling  of 
shame  which  came  upon  her  whenever  she  con- 
sidered how  she  should  speak  to  Mr.  Oldham — 
into  what  words  she  should  put  the  blunt  re- 
quest, "Give  me  some  more  monpy?"  For 
she  knew  that,  in  degree,  her  husband  was 
right ;  the  rector  was  rather  hard  in  the  mat- 
ter of  money.  That  is,  where  he  did  give,  he 
gave  liberally  enough ;  but  he  disliked  being 
encroached  upon,  or  applied  to  unnecessarily ; 
and  he  was  so  exceedingly  accurate  himself  in 
all  his  pecuniary  affairs  that  he  had  a  great  con- 
tempt for  inaccuracy  in  others.  He  had,  too, 
on  occasion,  the  power  of  making  people  a  little 
afraid  of  him ;  and,  brave  woman  as  she  was, 
I  think  Mrs.  Scanlan  must  have  been  slightly 
afraid  too — conscious  of  that  sensation  which 
children  call  "their  courage  slipping  down  to 
the  heels  of  their  shoes" — as  she  sat,  lacing  her 
poor,  half-worn,  nay,  shabby  boots,  on  her  deli- 
cate feet,  the  morning  she  had  to  walk  down  to 
the  Rectory. 

It  was  a  burning  hot  morning  in  the  middle 
of  June.  I  can  picture  her,  for  I  know  exactly 
how  she  was  dressed.  She  had  on  her  usual 
print  gown,  with  a  tippet  of  nankeen,  and  a 
gipsy  hat,  such  as  was  then  the  fashion,  of 
coarse  black  and  white  straw.  She  used  to 
plait  this  straw  herself,  and  make  it  into  hats 
for  her  own  use  and  for  the  children — large, 
shady,  and  comfortable,  tied  across  the  crown 
and  under  the  chin  with  green  ribbon.  Her  cos- 
tume was,  perhaps,  not  quite  matronly  enough, 
but  it  suited  her  circumstances ;  the  lilac  print 
gown  washed  forever ;  the  hat  was  much  more 
convenient  than  the  gigantic  bonnets,  heavy 
with  feathers  and  flowers,  which  were  then  in 
vogue — and  much  more  economical  besides. 
With  her  stately  gait  and  still  slender,  girlish 
figure,  upon  which  almost  any  thing  looked  well, 
I  have  little  doubt,  though  the  Ditchley  ladies 
who  met  her  that  day  might  have  set  her  down 
as  dressed  rather  oddly  and  unfashionably,  there 
was  something  about  Mrs.  Scanlan's  appearance 
which  marked  her  unmistakably  as  "the  gen- 
tlewoman. " 

She  walked  quickly  across  the  common,  and 
through  the  town,  for  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
some  ugly  thoughts  which  oppressed  her ;  and, 
besides,  whenever  a  difficulty  had  to  be  met  it 
was  her  nature  to  meet  it  as  soon  as  possible. 
"If  I  had  to  be  hanged,"  she  would  say,  "I 
would  rather  be  hanged  at  once.  Reprieves 
are  intolerable." 

It  was  not  often  she  quitted  her  own  house 
for  other  people's  now.  For  months  she  had 
not  been  inside  the  pretty  Rectory,  and  the 


52 


A  BRA.VE  LADY. 


sight  of  it  in  all  its  summer  beauty  aroused  old 
remembrances  and  vaia  desires.  Desires  not 
for  herself,  but  for  those  belonging  to  her.  Had 
she  been  alone  she  almost  thought  she  would 
have  lived  on  forever  at  Wren's  Nest,  dilapidated 
and  dreary  though  it  was  growing.  But — her 
children.  It  was  now  most  difficult  to  stow 
them  all  away  within  those  narrow  walls ;  and, 
as  for  making  them  really  comfortable  there, 
the  thing  could  not  be  done  at  all. 

She  counted  them  over,  her  pretty  flock: 
manly  Cesar,  delicate  Adrienne,  Louis,  who 
bade  fair  to  be  the  cleverest  of  the  tribe,  Ga- 
brielle,  growing  up  with  all  the  health  and 
beauty  that  her  elder  sister  lacked,  Martin  and 
Catherine,  baby  nonentities  still,  but  fast  turn- 
ing into  individualities,  like  the  rest,  for  the 
mother's  character  had  impressed  itself  upon 
every  one  of  her  children.  They  were  not 
commonplace  at  all,  but  had  each  strong  wills 
and  decided  tastes.  Poor  little  souls !  How 
hard  it  would  be  to  repress  their  dawning  tal- 
ents and  aspirations,  to  bring  them  up  little 
better  than  laborers'  children,  for  so  it  must 
be — how  could  it  be  different?  She  did  not 
know  where  even  food  and  clothing  were  to 
come  from,  to  say  nothing  of  education.  Oh, 
if  she  only  had  a  little  money!  merely  the 
crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table — the  merest 
tithe  of  that  wealth  which  Mr.  Oldham  spent 
so  carelessly  upon  his  garden,  his  conservato- 
ries, his  beautiful  and  tasteful  house. 

She  began  to  think  that  after  all  her  husband 
was  right  in  his  complaints  against  fate ;  that 
blessings  were  very  unfairly  divided,  especially 
money  ;  and  that  it  was  hard  this  childless  old 
bachelor  should  have  so  much,  and  she  and  her 
poor  young  tribe  so  little.  Did  the  good  God 
look  with  equal  eyes  on  all  ?  Did  He  see  how 
she  suffered?  Was  it  any  use  to  call  upon 
Him,  and  ask  Him  to  help  her?  Not  in  one 
of  those  voluminous  and  voluble  prayers  which 
her  husband  poured  out  night  and  morning,  to 
the  phraseology  of  which  she  had  grown  so  ac- 
customed that  now  it  all  went  in  at  one  ear  and 
out  at  the  other.  She  either  never  listened  at 
all,  or  listened  with  a  slight  curl  of  the  lip,  in- 
credulous both  as  to  the  prayer  itself,  and,  God 
help  her,  to  the  Hearer  of  it  also. 

Blameworthy  she  might  be  —  ay,  she  was. 
She  ought  to  have  been  Christian  enough  to 
judge  between  the  sham  and  the  reality  f  wise 
enough  to  know  that  all  the  musty  human  cur- 
tains hung  between  may  darken  the  soul's  day- 
light, but  can  never  blot  out  the  existence  of 
the  sun,  the  great  Sun  of  Kighteousness,  who 
shines  forever  above  and  upon  us  all.  But  she 
was  also  deeply  to  be  pitied ;  for  the  man  who 
made  this  woman  half  an  unbeliever  stood  to 
her  in  the  closest  relation  that  one  human  be- 
ing can  stand  to  another,  the  ruler  of  her  life, 
the  centre  of  her  world,  her  priest,  her  lord,  her 
husband. 

Usually  she  was  too  busy,  from  hour  to  hour, 
and  from  minute  to  minute,  for  these  ill  thoughts 
to  come ;  thoughts  which,  beginning  in  lack  of 


faith  in  man,  ended  in  lack  of  faith  toward  God  ; 
but  to-day,  in  her  long,  lonely,  fatiguing  walk, 
the  devil  had  had  full  opportunity  to  attack  her. 
She  felt  his  cruel  black  wings  flapping  behind 
her  at  every  step  she  took,  and  she  flung  the 
Rectory  gate  after  her  with  a  clang,  hoping  in 
that  pleasant,  peaceful  garden  to  shut  him  out, 
but  he  would  come  in.  He  seemed  to  jeer  at 
her  from  under  the  faded  laburnums,  and  be- 
hind the  syringa  bushes  —  those  mock-orange 
blossoms,  with  their  faint,  sickly  smell,  sweet  at 
first,  but  afterward  growing  painful  to  the  sense. 
They  reminded  her  of  many  marriages,  which 
begin  so  bright  at  first,  and  end — God  knows 
how !  Marriages  in  which  nobody  is  particu- 
larly to  blame,  and  of  which  the  only  thing  to 
be  said  is,  that  they  were  altogether  a  mistake 
— a  sad  mistake. 

"  But  nobody  knows  it,  aifd  nobody  ought  to 
know,"  said  to  herself  this  thirteen-years'  wife 
— apropos  of  nothing  external — as  she  walked 
on  in  her  rare  solitude,  thinking  she  would  give 
herself,  and  the  devil,  no  more  opportunities  of 
the  same  sort  again ;  and  forcibly  turning  her 
mind  away  from  other  things  to  the  special  thing 
she  had  that  morning  to  do.  '^ 

She  found  Mr.  Oldham,  not  in  his  study,  as 
she  expected,  but  sitting  in  his  veranda.  The 
day  was  so  hot  and  his  book  so  uninteresting 
that  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  arm-chair.  As 
she  came  suddenly  upon  him  thus  he  looked  so 
withered  and  wasted,  such  a  forlorn  specimen 
of  a  solitary  old  bachelor,  with  not  a  creature 
to  look  after  him,  not  a  soul  to  care  whether 
he  was  alive  or  dead,  that  the  wife  and  mother 
who  a  moment  before  had  been  bitterly  envy- 
ing him  now  felt  a  sensation  of  pity.  Her  own 
full,  bright  home,  alive  with  little  voices,  and 
this  lonely  house  and  silent  garden,  where  the 
bees  and  the  birds  went  on  with  their  humming 
and  singing,  as  heedless  of  the  old  man  as  if 
he  were  not  asleep  but  dead — struck  her  with 
forcible  contrast,  and  reproached  her  uncon- 
sciously for  all  she  had  been  thinking  of  so  bit- 
terly. 

She  had  no  time  to  think  more ;  for  Mr.  Old- 
ham woke,  and  apologized,  in  some  confusion, 
for  being  so  discovered. 

"  But  I  really  do  not  believe  I  was  asleep, 
Madame ;  I  was  only  meditating.  At  my  age 
one  has  plenty  of  time  for  meditation.  You,  I 
suppose,  have  very  little  ?" 

"None  at  all."  And  the  idea  of  her  sitting 
down,  only  for  ten  minutes,  idle,  with  a  book 
in  her  hand,  quite  amused  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

The  old  man  seemed  much  pleased  to  see 
her ;  brought  her  an  arm-chair  as  comfortable 
as  his  own,  and  thanked  her  warmly  for  taking 
such  a  long,  hot  walk  just  to  pay  him  a  neigh- 
borly visit. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you ;  very  kind  indeed, 
and  you  are  most  welcome  too.  I  am  so  much 
alone." 

His  courteous  gratitude  smote  her  conscience 
painfully.  Coloring,  almost  with  shame,  she 
said  at  once,  blurting  it  out  in  a  confused  way, 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


53 


TUE  BEOTOB  AT  UOME. 


very  unlike  her  ordinary  sweet  and  stately  man- 
ner— 

"  You  must  not  thank  me  too  much,  Mr.  Old- 
ham, or  I  shall  feel  quite  a  hypocrite.  L  am 
afraid  my  visit  to-day  was  not  at  all  disinter- 
ested, in  the  sense  you  put  it.  I  had  some- 
thing which  I  particularly  wished  to  speak  to 
you  about."  > 

*'I  shall  be  most  happy,"  returned  the  rec- 
tor ;  and  then  noticing  how  far  from  happy  his 
visitor  still  looked,  he  added,  "  My  dear  lady, 
make  yourself  quite  at  ease.  I  like  your  plain 
speaking,  even  though  it  does  take  down  an 
old  man's  vanity  a  little.  How  could  I  expect 
you,  a  busy  mother  of  a  family,  to  waste  your 
valuable  time  inquiring  after  the  health  of  a 
stupid  old  bachelor  like  me  ?" 

" Have  you  been  ill ?     I  did  not  know." 

"  Nobody  did,  except  Waters ;  I  hate  to  be 
gossiped  about,  as  you  are  aware.  I  think, 
Mrs.  Scanlan,  you  and  I  understand  one  an- 
other pretty  well  by  this  time  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said,  smiling;  and  taking 
the  hint  asked  no  more  questions  about  his  ill- 
ness. She  noticed  that  he  looked  a  little  worn, 
and  his  hands  were  "shaky,"  but  he  was  as 
])olite  and  kind  as  usual — rather  more  so,  in- 
deed. 

*'  Come,  then,  we  will  sit  and  talk  here,  and 
afterward  we  will  go  and  look  at  my  roses.  I 
have  the  finest  Banksia  you  ever  saw,  just  com- 
ing into  flower." 

Banksia  roses !  and  the  bitter  business  that ' 
she  had  to  speak  about !     It  was  a  hard  con- 


trast for  the  curate's  wife ;  but  she  made  a  no- 
lent  effort,  and  began.  Once  begun  it  was  less 
difficult  to  get  through  with ;  the  rector  help- 
ing her  by  his  perfect  yet  courteous  silence; 
never  interrupting  her  by  Avord  or  look  till  she 
had  got  to  the  end  of  her  tale,  and  had  made, 
in  as  brief  language  as  she  could  put  it,  her 
humiliating  request.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  looked  at  her — inquiringly,  as  it  seemed,  but 
satisfied  ;  looked  away  again — and  sat  drawing 
patterns  on  the  gravel-walk  with  his  stick. 

"  What  you  tell  me,  Mrs.  Scanlan,  you  prob- 
ably think  I  was  unacquainted  with,  but  I  am 
not.  Your  husband  has  broached  the  matter 
to  me  several  times ;  he  did  it  a  week  ago,  and 
I  gave  him  an  answer — a  direct  refusal." 

"  A  direct  refusal !  And  he  never  told  me ! 
He  allowed  me  to  come  and  ask  you  again  I" 

For  a  moment  Josephine's  indignation  had 
got  the  better  of  her  prudence. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Oldham,"  added 
she,  rising  at  once.  "I  perceive  I  ought  not 
to  have  come  here  at  all.  But  Mr.  Scanlan 
said—" 

She  stopped.  It  was  not  always  safe  to  re- 
peat what  Mr.  Scanlan  said,  without  some  con- 
firmatory or  secondary  evidence. 

"Mr.  Scanlan  probably  said  a  great  many 
unnecessary  things,  as  a  man  does  when  he  is 
annoyed — and  I  fear  I  annoyed  him  very  much 
that  day.  But  you  must  pardon  me,  Madame. 
Your  husband  is  a  young  man,  and  he  ought 
to  put  up  a  little  with  an  old  man  like  me. 
So  ought  you.     My  dear  lady,  will  you  not  sit 


54 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


down  again,  and  let  us  talk  the  matter  quietly 
over?" 

She  obeyed,  though  it  went  against  her  grain 
sorely.  But  the  rector  was,  as  he  said,  an  old 
man,  who  had  been  very  kind  to  her  and  her 
children.  She  believed  him  to  be  really  her 
friend — in  fact,  the  only  friend  she  had.  Since 
forlorn  wives,  whom  the  world  supposes  well 
protected,  are,  consequently,  the  most  friend- 
less women  alive.  Their  one  stay  failing  them, 
they  can  have  no  substitute ;  they  must  acquire 
strength  enough  to  stand  alone — or  drop. 

"  Mr.  Scanlan  told  me,  of  course,  of  the  al- 
ternative— the  fatal  alternative,  for  me"  (here 
it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  whether  Mr.  Old- 
ham meant  truth  or  satire) — "  that  if  his  income 
were  not  increased  he  would  have  to  go  at  once 
to  reside  in  London.  It  seems  he  has  admira- 
ble prospects  there  ?" 

This  last  sentence,  which,  though  stated  as 
a  fact,  sounded  more  like  a  query,  was  met  by 
Mrs.  Scanlan  with  a  dead  silence.  In  truth, 
she  was  so  surprise4^at  finding  all  these  things, 
upon  which  her  husband  had  bound  her  to  se- 
crecy, made  patent  by  him  to  the  very  last  per- 
son she  expected  he  would  have  told  them  to, 
that  she  could  not  find  a  word  to  say. 

*'  Or  else, "  pursued  Mr.  Oldham,  "  he  thinks 
he  has  great  prospects — which,  in  a  person  of 
ray  friend  Scanlan's  enthusiastic  temperament, 
comes  to  the  same  thing.  But  in  such  import- 
ant matters  I  always  prefer  having  the  lady's 
opinion  likewise.  What  do  you  say  ?  Is  it 
your  wish  to  leave  Ditchley  ?" 

"No.     Decidedly  no." 

The  old  man  looked  pleased.  "I  am  glad 
of  that.  I  should  be  sorry,  Madame,  that  after 
all  these  years  you  liked  us  so  little  that  you 
were  glad  to  run  away.  And,  besides,  I  can 
not  feel  that  there  are  such  vital  objections  to 
Ditchley.  It  is  a  pretty  neighborhood,  with 
good  society,  a  healthy  place  for  children,  and 
all  that.     Why  should  you  go  to  London  ?" 

"My  husband  wishes  it." 

"Yes,  I  remember  he  said  he  would  bebet- 
ter  appreciated  there  ;  would  attract  large  con- 
gregations ;  get  into  the  aristocratic  evangelical 
set,  and  so  on.  He  might ;  he  is  a  clever  man, 
and  a  most — ahem! — most  popular  preacher. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  he  might  not.  As  I  told 
him,  it  is  just  a  chance ;  and  if  the  chance  fails, 
where  is  he  ?  Also,  where  are  you  and  the 
children  ?" 

Mr.  Oldham  spoke  in  such  a  practical,  kind- 
ly, common-sense  way,  having  evidently  taken 
in  the  position  and  thought  it  over,  in  a  way 
that  people  seldom  trouble  themselves  to  think 
over  their  friends'  affairs,  that  Mrs.  Scanlan 
was  a  little  relieved.  He  had  not  been  offend- 
ed, evidently,  whatever  unpleasant  talk  had 
passed  between  him  and  her  husband.  She  felt 
extremely  grateful  to  the  old  man,  and  expressed 
her  gratitude  warmly. 

"  No,  no.  You  have  nothing  to  thank  me 
for ;  it  is  quite  the  other  way.  And  I  looked 
forward  to  having  the  pleasure  of  your  society, 


and  my  friend  Scanlan's,  for  some  years — in 
fact,  till  my  years  are  done.  It  would  be  a 
great  regret  to  me  if  you  had  to  leave  Ditchley." 

"And  to  me  also.  In  which,"  added  she, 
recollecting  herself,  "I  am  sure  my  husband 
would  join.  He  would  hesitate  very  much  at 
giving  up  his  curacy.  But  necessity  has  no 
law."  For  it  seemed  as  if  the  object  of  her 
visit  were  slipping  away,  so  she  forcibly  brought 
herself  back  to  the  point.  "  It  all  comes  to  this, 
Mr.  Oldham :  we  can  not  live  upon  the  income 
we  have  from  you,  and  we  have  no  other — not 
a  half-penny  but  what  you  give  us." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  feared  so,  but  I  never  was  quite' 
sure  of  it.  You  must  have  a  sore  pull  some- 
times.    Poor  lady!" 

He  just  touched  her  hand,  with  which  she 
had  grasped  the  arm  of  his  chair.  What  a  thin 
hand  it  was !  and  marked  with  traces  of  toil, 
not  usually  seen  on  a  lady's  hand.  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan drew  it  away  at  once. 

"I  do  not  complain,"  she  said,  rather  proud- 
ly. "  I  shall  make  ends  meet,  if  I  can,  but  jnst 
this  year  I  have  been  unable  to  do  it,  and  I  feel 
quite  miserable.  Do  you  know  we  actually  owe 
fifteen  pounds!" 

"Fifteen  pounds — what  an  alarming  sum  !" 
said  the  rector,  smiling. 

"  Not  to  you,  perhaps ;  but  to  me  it  is  alarm- 
ing. It  makes  me  shrink  from  going  through 
Ditchley  High  Street.'  I  think  all  men's  eyes 
must  be  Upon  me.  *  There  is  the  clergyman's 
wife ;  she  owes  money,  and  she  can't  pay,  or 
won't  pay;'  for  how  do  they  know  which  it  is? 
Oh !  Mr.  Oldham,  you  may  think  lightly  of  it, 
but  to  me  it  is  dreadful — intolerable ! " 

She  spoke  earnestly  ;  almost  with  the  tears  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  so  long  since  her  heart  had 
been  opened  to  any  body,  that  once  beginning 
to  speak  she  could  not  stop  herself. 

"  You  see,  I  never  was  used  to  this  sort  of 
thing.  My  father — ah !  if  you  had  known  my 
father!  He  would  have  gone  hungry — many 
a  time  we  have  both  gone  hungry — but  to  go 
into  debt !  we  would  have  shuddered  at  such  a 
thing.  Yes,  you  should  have  known  my  father," 
she  repeated,  and  her  tears  began  to  start. 

"I  have  never  named  the  circumstance  to 
you,  Madame,  because  it  was  not  neces^ry '' 
said  Mr.  Oldham,  gently ;  "  but  once  in  Paris^, 
at  the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  his  sister,') 
whom  I  had  met  before  and  much  admiredxl 
had  the  honor  of  seeing,  for  five  minutes  only, 
Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Bougainville." 

'  Greatly  astonished,  but  still  unwilling  to  put 
questions  which  Mr.  Oldham  had  evidently  no 
intention  of  answering — indeed  he  seemed  ex- 
ceedingly to  dislike  the  subject — Mrs.  Scanlan 
sat  silent ;  and  the  next  moment  the  butler  ap- 
peared, announcing  lunch. 

"You  will  allow  me?"  said  the  rector,  offer- 
ing her  his  arm.  "After  luncheon  we  shall 
have  an  opportunity  of  talking  our  little  busi- 
ness over." 

The  curate's  wife  roused  herself  to  necessary 
courtesy,  and  her  courage,  which  had  been  slow- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


55 


ly  ebbing  away,  faintly  revived.  During  the 
meal  she  and  Mr.  Oldham  conversed  together 
in  their  usual  pleasant  way ;  on  his  favorite  hob- 
bies, his  garden  and  so  on ;  nay,  he  paid  her  ev- 
ery attention  that  he  could  think  of;  even  send- 
ing for  a  bottle  of  his  most  precious  Burgundy, 
in  celebration,  he  said,  of  the  rare  honor  of  hav- 
ing her  for  his  guest.  His  kindness  comforted 
her  even  more  than  his  wine. 

Besides — alas  for  poor  mortality  ! — to  her, 
faint  from  her  hot  walk,  this  plentiful  meal, 
more  luxurious  than  any  dinner  she  had  had 
for  months  ;  and  the  peaceful  eating  of  it,  sur- 
rounded by  the  quiet  atmosphere  of  wealthy 
ease,  affected  her  with  a  sensation- of  unaccus- 
tomed pleasantness.  She  had  never  cared  for 
luxuries  when  she  had  them ;  but  now,  in  her 
long  lack  of  them,  they  seemed  to  have  acquired 
an  adventitious  value.  She  almost  wished  she 
had  a  beggar's  wallet,  and  a  beggar's  cool  ef- 
frontery, that  she  might  take  a  portion  of  the 
delicately-cooked  dinner  home  to  her  children, 
especially  her  sickly  Adrienne ;  and  she  gazed 
round  the  large,  cool,  airy  dining-room  with  an 
unconscious  sigh. 

"  You  seem  to  admire  this  room,"  said  Mr. 
Oldham,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  I  always  did,  you  know.  The  Rectory 
is,  to  my  mind,  the  prettiest  house  in  Ditchley. 
And  I  have  a  weakness  for  all  pretty  things." 

"  So  have  I.  And  sometimes  I  think  I  might 
indulge  it  even  more  than  I  do — in  collecting 
pictures,  for  instance.  But  where  would  be  the 
good  of  this — to  an  old  bachelor  like  me,  who 
can  not,  at  best,  enjoy  theni  long  ?  and  at  my 
death  they  would  be  all  dispersed.  No,  no ;  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  keep  to  my  old  plain 
ways,  and  leave  extravagance  for  those  that  will 
come  affcer  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Oldham  had  ever 
openly  reverted  to  his  heir  or  heirs.  Of  course 
they  existed  :  rich  men  have  always  a  tribe  of 
seventeenth  cousins  and  so  on,  eager  to  drop 
in  for  what  may  be  left  them ;  but  none  such 
had  ever  appeared  at  Ditchley.  The  town  and 
neighborhood  seemed  as  ignorant  on  the  sub- 
ject as  Mrs.  Scanlan  ;  in  fact,  the  general  opin- 
ion was  that  Mr.  Oldham  meamt  to  leave  all  his 
money  to  some  charitable  mstitution.  He  was, 
she  knew,  the  last  of  his  family — a  sad  thing  in 
itself,  and  not  a  pleasant  topic  to  speak  upon 
with  him ;  so  she  tried  to  turn  the  current  of 
cwiversation  by  some  commonplace  remark, 
hoping  that  "  those  which  came  after  him" 
would  long  be  kept  out  of  their  inheritance. 

*'  Thank  you.  However,  when  they  do  come 
into  it  they  will  find  it  safe  and  sure.  I  take 
a  good  while  to  make  up  my  mind,  but  having 
once  made  it  up  I  rarely  change  it.  My  heirs 
may  count  securely  upon  their  property." 

It  was  an  odd  remark,  and  Josephine  was  puz- 
zled how  to  reply  to  it.  Of  course,  it  showed 
Mr.  Oldham's  friendly  spirit  toward  herself  and 
her  interest  in  his  affairs  thus  to  speak  of  them 
to  her ;  but  her  own  business  was  too  near  her 
heart,  and  she  was  pardonably  indifferent  as  to 


who  might  or  might  not  inherit  Mr.  Oldham's 
money.  The  humble  fortunes  of  herself  and  her 
family  were  of  much  more  importance  to  her 
just  then.  StiU,  she  would  not  force  the  con- 
versation ;  but  she  waited  with  nervous  impa- 
tience for  her  host  to  quit  the  dining-room  and 
lead  the  way  into  his  study. 

He  did  so  at  length ;  though  even  when  there 
he  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  and  pointed  to 
her  to  take  another,  without  testifying  any  im- 
mediate intention  of  beginning  the  subject  which 
lay  so  close  to  her  heart. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  dying,  Mrs.  Scanlan  ?" 

It  was  an  odd  question,  odd  even  to  ludicrous- 
ness ;  but  she  restrained  her  inclination  to  see  it 
in  that  light,  and  said,  gravely  : 

"  In  a  religious  point  of  view,  do  you  mean, 
Mr.  Oldham?" 

"  No ;  a  worldly  one.  Do  you  consider  your- 
self likely  to  have  a  long  life  ?" 

"My  family  were  all  long-lived,  and  I  am 
myself,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  very  healthy  per- 
son. Yes;  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  all  my 
children  grown  up.     God  grant  it ! " 

She  slightly  sighed.  For,  when  in  her  last 
crisis  of  motherhood  she  had  a  nearer  risk  of 
her  life  than  ordinary,  it  had  struck  her — what 
if  she  were  to  die,  leaving  those  poor  little  ones 
of  hers  with  no  shelter,  no  protection  against 
the  hard  world,  except  their  father  ?  And  since 
that  time  she  had  taken  especial  care  of  her 
own  health,  and  striven  hard  against  a  weary 
longing  for  rest  that  sometimes  came  over  her, 
praying  that  she  might  be  forgiven  for  it,  and 
not  allowed  to  die  until  she  was  quite  an  old  wo- 
man, or  until  her  children  needed  her  no  more. 

"My  life  is  in  God's  hands,"  she  resumed, 
"but,  humanly  speaking,  I  see  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  be  a  long  one.  I  trust  it  will  be, 
for  my  children's  sake  and  my  husband's." 

"  Your  husban(f  is  less  strong  than  you ;  at 
least  he  always  tells  me  so.  When  he  gets 
into  a  melancholy  mood  he  says  he  shall  never 
live  to  be  my  age." 

f' "  I  think  he  will,  though,"  replied  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan, cheerfully,  "especially  if  he  has  no  very 
hard  work,  and  resides  always  in  the  country. 
Which  is  one  of  my  strong  reasons  for  dislik- 
ing to  remove  to  London." 

"  Stay ;  we  will  enter  upon  that  matter  pres- 
ently. ,  Just  now  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about 
— what  I  did  not  at  first  mean  to  tell  you,  but 
have  decided  that  it  is  better  I  should — some 
private  affairs  of  my  own.  A  secret,  in  short. 
I  know  that  you  can  keep  a  secret. " 

Mrs.  Scanlan  bent  her  head  assentingly,  won- 
dering what  on  earth  was  coming  next.  Surely, 
she  thought,  it  is  not  possible  that  the  old  man 
is  going  to  be  married !  He  was  seventy-five  at 
least ;  yet  such  things  do  happen,  even  to  sep- 
tuagenarians. But  his  next  sentence  removed 
this  doubt. 

"  It  is  a  secret  that  you  will  have  to  keep  for 
some  time — possibly  several  years.  And  you 
must  keep  it  implicitly  and  entirely.  You  must 
not  even  tell  it  to  your  husband." 


56 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


"Not  tell  my  husband!"  cried  Josephine, 
drawing  back.  "  Then,  I  think,  Mr.  Oldham, 
you  had  better  not  confide  it  to  me  at  all.  It 
is  exceedingly  diflBcult — not  to  enter  upon  the 
question  of  whether  it  is  right  or  wrong — for 
any  wife  to  keep  a  secret  from  her  husband." 

"May  be;  I  have  never  had  the  advantage 
of  being  married,  and  am  certainly  not  likely 
now  to  risk  the  experiment.  But  still,  in  the 
matter  of  Mrs.  Waters  you  did  not  tell  your 
husband." 

"That  was  diiFerent,"  said  she,  hesitating. 

"Nevertheless,  here  the  case  stands.  Either 
you  must  promise  not  to  communicate  this  fact 
to  your  husband,  or  I  can  not  confide  it  to  you. 
And  it  is  important — indeed,  of  the  most  vital 
importance — that  you  should  know  it." 

The  rector  spoke  decidedly,  with  that  decis- 
ion which,  whenever  he  chose  to  exercise  it, 
she  was  aware  was  inflexible.  He  did  not  care 
to  fight  about  small  things,  but  in  great  ones, 
when  his  mind  was  made  up,  you  might  as  well 
attempt  to  move  a  mountain  as  Mr.  Oldham. 

"It  is  a  secreC^"  continued  he,  "which  is 
exclusively  mine ;  which  would  do  Scanlan  no 
good  to  learn,  and  might  do  him  considerable 
harm.  The  greatest  kindness  I  can  show  him, 
I  honestly  believe,  is  to  keep  it  from  him." 

"  Then  why  tell  it  to  me  ?" 

"Because  you  are  another  sort  of  a  person. 
It  could  not  possibly  harm  you,  and  might  be 
useful  to  you  in  some  degree — you  and  the  chil- 
dren. I  advise  you  to  hear  it,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  the  children." 

"I  hate  mysteries,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  un- 
easily, and  turning  over  in  her  mind  what  this 
secret  of  the  rector's  could  possibly  be.  Was 
it  any  difiiculty  between  him  and  his  bishop,  in 
which  Mr.  Scanlan  was  also  concerned?  Or 
was  it — this  suggestion  occurred  to  her  as  most 
probable — something  relating  to  Mr.  Scanlari's 
future  ;  perhaps  his  chance  of  the  next  present- 
ation to  the  living  of  Ditchley,  on  Mr.  Oldham's 
decease?  The  rector's  next  words  confirmed 
her  in  this  idea. 

"I  hate  mysteries,  too,  Madame,  unless  they 
are  quite  unavoidable,  as  this  is.  I  ask  from 
you  a  plain  Yes  or  No,  nor  can  I  give  you  any 
more  information  to  influence  you  on  the  mat- 
ter, except  that  when  you  know  my  secret,  I 
believe,  I  am  almost  sure,  that  you  will  not 
think  it  necessary  to  go  and  live  in  London. " 

The  temptation  was  sore.  "Oh!  Mr.  Old- 
ham," she  said,  piteously,  "why  do  you  try  me 
so  hard?" 

"  I  do  it  for  your  own  good.  Do  you  think 
I  don't  feel  for  you,  my  poor  girl?"  and  his 
tone  was  almost  paternal  in  its  kindness.  "  But 
the  circumstances  of  the  case  are  quite  inevita- 
ble. Either  you  must  accept  my  secret,  and 
keep  it  from  your  husband,  and  from  every  hu- 
man being  during  my  lifetime,  or  I  shall  con- 
sider the  conditions  void ;  and  all  things  shall 
be  as  if  they  had  never  been." 

"  I  do  not  understand — " 

"  There  is  no  necessity  that  you  should  un- 


derstand. Only,  will  you  trust  me  ?  Have  I 
not  always  been  a  good  friend  to  you  ?  Can 
you  not  believe  that  I  shall  remain  so  to  the 
last?  And  I  give  you  my  honor — the  honor 
of  the  last  of  the  Oldhams" — added  he,  with  a 
sort  of  proud  pathos,  that  went  right  to  the 
heart  of  this  mother  of  a  rising  race,  "  that 
what  I  ask  of  you  will  never  trouble  you,  or 
grieve  you,  or  compromise  you  in  the  smallest 
degree.  It  is  my  secret.  I  might  have  kept 
it  from  you  to  the  last,  only,"  with  an  air  of 
amused  benevolence,  "I  think  you  will  be  the 
better  for  hearing  it.  I  think,  too,  that  Scan- 
lan himself  would  urge  you  to  accept  my  con- 
ditions— if  he  knew." 

"Let  me  tell  him,"  pleaded  the  wife.  " Let 
me  just  tell  my  husband  that  there  is  a  secret  ; 
which  he  must  allow  me  to  keep,  even  from 
himself,  for  the  present." 

Mr.  Oldham  shook  his  head.  "¥ou  Quix- 
otic woman !  You  are  like  Charity,  that  '  be- 
lieveth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things.'  But  I 
know  better.  No,  no.  Don't  mistake  me.  I 
like  Scanlan  very  much.  He  is  a  clever  fellow ; 
a  pleasant  fellow ;  he  suits  me  as  a  curate.  I 
never  wish  to  part  from  him.  Still,  my  dear 
lady,  you  do  not  require  me  to  tell  you  that — 
that — "  he  hesitated — "Mrs.  Scanlan  is  a  very 
superior  person  to  her  husband." 

Poor  Mr.  Oldham  !  in  his  ignorant  bachelor- 
hood he  had  not  a  suspicion  of  the  effect  his 
compliment  would  produce. 

The  blood  rushed  violently  into  Josephine's 
face ;  she  drew  herself  up  with  a  haughtiness 
which  he  had  never  before  seen. 

"Sir! — Mr.  Oldham! — you  can  not  surely 
mean  what  you  are  saying.  Let  us  dismiss  this 
subject,  and  confine  ourselves  entirely  to  the 
matter  in  hand — the  matter  my  husband  sent 
me  to  discuss  with  you.  May  we  enter  upon 
it  at  once  ?  for  I  must  go  home  to  my  children." 

Mr.  Oldham  regarded  her  a  moment,  and 
then  held  out  his  hand  almost  humbly. 

"Pardon,  Madame.  I  was  forgetting  my- 
self, and  speaking  to  you  as  if  you  were  my 
daughter.  You  almost  might  have  been.  I 
was  once  in  love  with  a  lady  very  like  you." 

There  was  a  slight  twitch  in  the  withered 
face,  and  the  momentary  emotion  passed.  Who 
the  "  lady"  was,  Mrs.  Scanlan  did  not,  of  course, 
ask  him.  Years  afterward  she  had  reason  to 
think  it  might  have  been  her  aunt,  that  beau- 
tiful Mademoiselle  Josephine  de  Bougainville 
who  died  young,  soon  after  her  marriage,  which 
had  been  a  marriage  de  convenance;  but  the  real 
facts,  buried  far  back  in  long  forgotten  years, 
Josephine  never  inquired  into  and  never  learned. 

"  The  matter  in  hand,  as  you  termed  it,"  re- 
sumed Mr.  Oldham,  "is  easily  settled.  I  like 
you — I  like  your  husband.  I  wish  him  to  re^ 
main  my  curate  as  long  as  I  live.  Therefore,"* 
tell  me  how  much  income  you  think  necessary 
for  your  comfort,  and  you  shall  have  it.  Give 
me  my  check-book  there,  state  your  sum,  and 
we  will  arrange  the  matter  at  once.  And  now, 
may  I  tell  you  my  secret  ?" 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


67 


Mrs.  Scanlan  had  listened  in  wondering 
thankfulness,  too  great  for  words ;  but  now 
she  recoiled.  Evidently  the  old  man  was  bent 
upon  his  point,  and  upon  exacting  his  ^condi- 
tions to  the  letter.  Her  strait  was  very  hard. 
The  simple  duty  of  a  wife — to  hide  nothing 
from  her  husband ;  to  hear  nothing  that  she  will 
require  to  hide — Josephine  never  doubted  for  a 
moment;  but  hers  was, an  exceptional  case. 

She  knew  well  enough,  and  was  convinced 
the  rector  knew,  that  Edward  Scanlan  was  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  be  trusted  with  a  se- 
cret. At  least,  so  she  should  have  said  or  him 
had  he  been  any  other  man  than  her  husband ; 
and  did  his  being  her  husband  alter  the  facts 
of  the  case,  or  her  judgment  upon  it  ?  We  may 
be  silent  concerning  the  weak  points  of  our 
nearest  and  dearest ;  but  to  ignore  them,  to  be 
willfuljy  blind  to  them,  to  refuse  to  guard  against 
them,  is,  to  any  prudent  and  conscientiously- 
minded  person,  clearly  impossible. 

Could  it  be  that  in  refusing  the  rector's  con- 
ditions, which  her  judgment  toM  her  he,  who 
knew  her  husband's  character  as  well^as  she 
did,  was  warranted  in  exacting,  she  was  strain- 
ing at  gnats  and  swallowing  camels  ?  setting  up 
a  sham  eidolon  of  wifely  duty,  and  sacrificing 
to  it  the  interests  of  her  whole  family,  including 
her  husband's  ? 

"Are  you  sure  it  will  never  harm  him — that 
he  will  never  blame  me  for  doing  this  ?" 

"Scanlan  blame  you? — oh  no!  Quite  im- 
possible," answered  the  rector,  with  a  slight 
curl  of  the  lip.  "  I  assure  you,  you  may  quiet 
all  apprehensions  on  that  score.  He  will  con- 
sider it  the  best  thing  you  could  possibly  do  for 
him." 

Yet  still  poor  Josephine  hesitated.  That 
clear  sense  of  the  right,  which  had  always 
burned  in  her  heart  with  a  steady  flame,  seemed 
flickering  to  and  fro,  turned  and  twisted  by  side 
winds  of  expediency.  The  motto  of  the  De 
Bougainville  family,  '■''  Fais  ce  que  tu  dots,  ad- 
vienne  que  pourra,''  rung  in  her  ears  with  a 
mocking  iteration.  In  her  girlhood  she  had 
obeyed  it  always — had  dared  every  thing,  doubt- 
ed nothing.  Could  yifehood  and  motherhood 
have  made  her  less  honorable,  less  brave  ? 

*'  Come,"  said  Mr.  Oldham,  "*this  is  too  im- 
portant a  matter  for  you  to  give,  or  me  to  take, 
a  rash  answer.  There  is  a  blank  check,  fill  it 
up  as  you  think  fair.  And  meantime  go  into 
the  garden  and  look  at  my  roses,  just  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

With  gentle  force  he  led  her  to  the  French 
window  of  his  study,  handed  her  through,  and 
closed  it  behind  her,  shutting  her  out  alone  in 
the  sunshiny  garden. 

Therein  she  wandered  about  for  fully  the 
prescribed  time.  What  inward  struggle  she 
went  through,  who  can  know  ?  Whether  she 
was  able  to  satisfy  herself  that  she  was  doing 
right ;  that  circumstances  justified  what,  in  most 
other  women's  case,  would  actually  be  wrong, 
and  she  would  have  been  the  first  to  pronounce 
wrong,  who  can  teU?  Or,  perhaps,  goaded  on  by 


the  necessities  of  her  hard  lot,  she  deliberately 
set  aside  the  question  of  whether  her  act  was 
right  or  wrong,  and  was  determined  to  do  it — 
for  her  children's  sake.  If  any  thing  could  turn 
a  woman  into  a  thief,  a  murderess,  a  sinner  of 
any  sort,  I  think  it  would  be  for  the  love  of,  or 
the  terror  for,  her  children. 

I  do  not  plead  for  Josephine  Scanlan.  I  only 
pity  her.  And  I  feel — ay,  I  feel  it  even  with 
my  own  husband's  honest  eyes  looking  into 
mine— that,  had  my  lot  been  hers,  I  should  have 
acted  exactly  the  same. 

She  came  back  to  Mr.  Oldham. 

"Well,  my  dear  lady,  have  you  decided  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  may  tell  me  any  thing  you  like, 
and  so  long  as  you  live  I  will  keep  your  secret 
faithfully." 

"  As  you  did  Mrs.  Waters's?" 

"That  was  a  different  matter;  but  I  will 
keep  your  secret  too,  even  from  my  husband." 

' '  Thank  you. "  And  Mr.  Oldham  shook  her 
hand  warmly.  "  You  shall  never  regret  the — 
the  sacrifice." 

But  now  that  he  had  her  promise,  he  seemed 
in  no  hurry  to  claim  it.  He  finished  writing 
out  the  check,  putting  in  a  sum  a  little  beyond 
that  which  she  had  named,  and  then,  taking  up 
his  hat  and  stick,  composedly  accompanied  her 
round  the  garden,  pointing  out  his  favorite  flow- 
ers and  his  various  improvements. 

"That  Banksia  rose,  is  it  not  fine?  I  shall 
train  it  all  over  the  veranda.  Indeed,  I  have 
thought  of  making  a  proper  rosary,  or  rosari- 
um ;  but  it  would  be  expensive,  and  is  hardly 
worth  while,  since  the  Rectory  comes  into  other 
hands  at  my  death.  Oldham  Court,  however, 
will  be  the  property  of  my  successor — and  a 
very  fine  property  it  is — quite  unencumbered. 
My  heirs  might  run  through  it  in  no  time ; 
however,  I  shall  take  care  to  prevent  that.  My 
friend  and  executor,  Dr.  Waters,  and  my  law- 
yer, are  both  remarkably  acute,  firm,  and  hon- 
orable men." 

"  Oh !  yes,"  replied  poor  Josephine,  answer- 
ing at  random,  for  her  patience  was  at  its  last 
gasp.  But  still  Mr.  Oldham  went  on  talking — 
she  scarcely  heard  what — about  every  thing  ex- 
cept the  important  secret;  and  not  until  the 
very  last  minute,  when  he  had  let  her  out  at  the 
gate  and  stood  leaning  against  it,  still  convers- 
ing with  her,  and  regarding  her  in  a  tender, 
wistful  sort  of  way,  did  he  refer  to  what  he  had 
to  tell. 

"  I  am  laying  on  you  a  heavy  burden,  you 
think,  Mrs.  Scanlan?  Perhaps  it  is  so.  But 
be  easy ;  you  may  not  have  to  bear  it  very  long. 
Only  during  my  lifetime." 

"  That  may  be,  I  trust,  many  years." 

"  And,  possibly,  not  one  year.  I  had  a  slight 
seizure  the  other  day,  which  made  me  arrange 
all  my  affairs.  But  do  not  speak  of  this.  It 
is  of  no  consequence.  Go  home  now,  and  mind, 
what  I  have  to  tell  you  must  make  no  difference 
there ;  every  thing  must  go  on  as  heretofore. 
Only  you  need  not  come  to  me  again,  looking 
the  picture  of  despair,  as  you  did  to-day." 


58 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


ilK8.  80A_NI.AM  8  80EUPLE8. 


"  Well,  I  do  not  return  in  despair,  thanks  to 
your  kindness.  And  on  my  next  visit  I  will 
take  care  to  put  on  my  best  looks,  and  bring  a 
child  or  two  with  me,  to  amuse  myself  and  you, 
Shalll?" 

"Certainly.  Yours  are  charming  children, 
and — "  he  added,  becoming  suddenly  grave, 
"  do  not  torment  yourself  any  more  about  their 
future ;  it  is  not  necessary.  This  is  my  secret 
-^a  very  simple  one.  Yesterday  I  made  my 
will,  and  I  left  you  my  heiress.  Not  a  word. 
Adieu!" 

He  turned,  and  walked  quickly  back  into  his 
garden.  Mrs.  Scanlan  stood,  transfixed  with 
astonishment,  at  the  Rectory  gate ;  and  then, 
there  being  nothing  else  left  for  her  to  do,  she 
also  turned  and  walked  home. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Josephine  Scanlan  walked  home  from  the 
Rectory  that  afternoon  feeling  like  a  woman  in 
a  dream. 

At  first  she  was  so  stunned  by  the  tidings 
she  had  received  that  she  did  not  realize  her 


position.  How  strange ! — how  very  strange ! 
— to  be  the  heiress  of  a  man  who  in  the  course 
of  nature  could  not  possibly  live  many  years, 
and  might  pass  away  any  day — leaving  behind 
him,  for  her  and  hers,  at  the  least  a  very  hand- 
some competence,  probably  considerable  wealth 
— wealth  enough  to  make  her  mind  entirely  at 
ease  Concerning  the  future  of  her  children.  Her 
bright,  bold  Cesar,  her  sensitive  Adrienne,  and 
all  her  other  darlings,  loved,  each  as  they  came, 
with  the  infinitely  divisible  yet  undivided  love 
of  a  mother— they  would  never  have  to  suffer 
as  she  had  suff'ered.     Thank  God ! 

This  was  her  prominent  thought.  It  came 
upon  her  gradually,  deliciously !  on  leaving  the 
garden-gate,  where,  quite  overcome,  she  had 
stood  ever  so  long  under  shelter  of  the  great 
white-thorn  tree :  for  years  the  sight  and  smell 
of  the  faint  pinky  blossoms  of  the  fading  flowers 
reminded  her  of  the  emotions  of  that  hour. 
Slowly  her  confused  mind  settled  into  calm- 
ness, and  she  took  in  the  full  extent  of  all  that 
had  happened  to  her  since  morning,  and  the 
total  change  that  had  come  to  her  lot. 

Not  externally.  It  was  obvious  that  Mr. 
Oldham  meant  to  make  no  public  acknowledg- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


69 


ment  of  his  intentions  with  regard  to  her. 
Also,  he  was  leaving  his  property  to  herself; 
he  had  said  distinctly  "my  heiress:"  never 
naming  her  husband.  These  two  facts  startled 
her.  The  rector,  with  all  his  reticent  polite- 
ness, was  then  an  acuter  man  than  she  sup- 
posed, and  had  seen  further  than  she  thought 
he  had  into  the  secrets  of  her  married  life,  and 
the  inner  mysteries  of  her  household.  He  had 
his  own  reasons — and  her  unwarped  judgment 
told  her  they  were  quite  feasible  and  good  ones 
— for  exacting  from  her  this  promise,  and  re- 
quiring that  the  daily  existence  of  the  little 
family  at  Wren's  Nest  should  go  on  as  hereto- 
fore, and  that  Edward  Scanlan  should  be  told 
nothing  whatever  of  the  change  that  was  likely 
to  take  place  in  his  fortunes.  It  was  best  so. 
Edward  Scanlan's  wife  knew  that  quite  as  well 
as  Mr.  Oldham  did. 

Some  may  hold  that  she  erred  here  in  seeing 
with  such  clear  vision  her  husband's  faults. 
Can  it  be  that  in  any  relation  of  life,  conjugal 
or  otherwise,  it  is  one's  duty  to  shut  one's  eyes 
to  facts,  and  do  one's  best  to  believe  a  lie? 
I  think  not.  I  think  all  righteous  love  par- 
takes in  this  of  the  love  of  God — that  it  can 
"hate  the  sin  and  love  the  sinner:"  that  with- 
out deceiving  itself  for  a  moment  as  to  the  weak 
points  of  the  object  beloved,  it  can  love  on  in 
spite  of  them ;  up  to  a  certain  limit,  often  a  very 
large  limit,  of  endurance :  and  that  when  love 
fails,  this  endurance  still  remains.  Besides, 
mercifully,  love  gets  into  a  habit  of  loving,  not 
easily  broken  through.  And  Josephine  had 
been  married  thirteen  years. 

In  all  those  thirteen  years  she  had  never  car- 
ried a  lighter  heart  than  that  which  seemed  to 
leap  in  her  bosom  as  gradually  she  recognized 
the  change  that  those  few  words  of  Mr.  Old- 
ham's had  wrought  in  her  thoughts,  hopes,  and 
plans,  though  all  must  necessarily  be  kept  to 
herself,  and  not  allowed  to  influence  her  out- 
side life.  Still,  this  was  not  so  hard  as  it  might 
once  have  been :  she  had  been  gradually  forced 
into  keeping  many  things  to  herself:  it  was  use- 
less, worse  than  useless,  to  speak  of  them  to  her 
husband.  She  always  intuitively  kept  from  him 
perplexing  and  vexatious  things ;  it  would  not  be 
much  more  difficult  to  keep  from  him  this  good 
thing.  Only  for  the  present  too :  he  would  one 
day  enjoy  it  all.  And  even  now  she  brought 
back  to  him  the  welcome  news  of  an  addition 
to  his  salary ;  large  enough,  she  fondly  believed, 
to  make  him  fully  satisfied  and  content. 

She  was  quite  content.  Before  she  had 
walked  half  a  mile  the  morning's  events  had 
grown  to  her  an  unmixed  good,  in  which  she 
rejoiced  without  a  single  drawback.  She  had 
no  hesitation  whatever  in  accepting  the  unex- 
pected heirship.  Mr.  Oldham  had  no  near  kin- 
dred who  could  look  for  any  thing  from  him ; 
and,  even  if  he  had,  could  he  not  do  as  he  liked 
with  his  own  ?  He  was  an  old  bachelor :  no 
one  had  any  claims  upon  him :  he  was  free  to 
leave  his  property  as  he  chose.  Nor  in  her  ma- 
ternal vanity  did  Mrs.  Scanlan  much  wonder 


at  his  choice.  She  herself  was  of  course  mere-* 
ly  nominal.  She  might  be  quite  elderly  before 
the  fortune  came  to  her,  but  it  would  assuredly 
come  to  her  children ;  and  who  that  looked  at 
her  Cdsar,  her  Louis,  would  not  be  glad  to  leave 
a  fortune  to  such  boys  ?  In  her  heart  the  mo- 
ther considered  Mr.  Oldham  a  wise  man  as  well 
as  a  generous. 

After  taking  a  slight  circuit  by  the  river-side, 
just  to  compose  her  mind,  she  walked  through 
Ditchley  town ;  walked  with  an  erect  bearing, 
afraid  of  meeting  nobody.  For  was  not  the 
check  in  her  pocket,  and  her  future  safe  and 
sure  ?  No  such  humiliation  as  had  happened 
lately  would  ever  happen  to  her  again.  Had 
not  the  check  been  made  out  to  her  husband, 
and  requiring  his  indorsement,  she  would  have 
paid  great  part  of  it  away  on  the  spot — this 
"painfully  honest"  woman — as  Mr.  Scanlan 
sometimes  called  her.  In  the  mean  time, 
she  went  into  every  shop  as  she  passed,  and 
collected  ail  her  bills,  saying  she  should  go 
round  and  pay  them  early  next  morning. 

Then  she  walked  gayly  across  the  common 
with  her  heart  full  of  gratitude  to  both  God  and 
man.  She  felt  kindly  toward  every  creature 
living.  A  beggar  whom  she  chanced  to  meet 
she  relieved  with  silver  instead  of  copper  this 
time.  And  every  neighbor  she  met,  instead  of 
slipping  away  from,  she  stopped  to  speak  to ; 
gave  and  accepted  several  invitations;  and 
talked  and  smiled  so  brightly  that  more  than 
one  person  told  her  how  very  well  she  was  look- 
ing. At  which  she  did  not  wonder  much ;  she 
felt  as  if  henceforward  she  should  always  be  well ; 
as  if  her  dark  days  were  gone  by  forever.  We 
all  have  such  seasons,  and  wonder  at  them  when 
the  dark  days  return  again,  as  return  they  must ; 
but  they  are  very  blessed  at  the  time,  and  they 
leave  a  dim'  odor  of  happiness  behind  them 
which  refreshes  us  more  than  we  know. 

When  Mrs.  Scanlan  came  to  the  door  of  her 
house — that  small  house  in  which  she  had  lived 
so  long,  and  might  have  to  live — how  much 
longer? — the  first  that  ran  out  to  meet  her 
was  her  little  daughter. 

"  Mamma,  you  bring  good  news !"  cried  the 
child,  who  was  a  wise  child,  and  could  already 
read,  plain  as  a  book,  every  expression  of  her 
mother's  face. 

And  then  the  mother  recognized,  for  a  mo- 
ment like  the  touch  of  a  thorn  on  her  hand,  the 
burden  which  had  been  laid  upon  her,  or  rath- 
er which  she  had  deliberately  laid  upon  her- 
self, in  accepting  Mr.  Oldham's  secret  and  its 
conditions.  She  did  bring  good  news ;  yet,  for 
the  first  time,  she  could  not  tell  them,  could  not 
ask  her  family  to  rejoice  with  her,  except  to  a 
very  limited  extent.  For  the  first  time  she  was 
obliged  to  prevaricate ;  to  drop  her  conscious 
eyes  before  those  of  her  own  child — so  clear,  so 
earnest  in  their  sympathy. 

"Yes,  my  darling,  I  do  bring  good  news. 
Mr.  Oldham  has  been  exceedingly  kind.  He 
has  done  what  I  wanted.  We  shall  be  quite 
rich  now." 


60 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


MAMMA,  YOU  BRING  GOOD  NEWS 


For  of  course  Adrienne  knew  of  all  the  trou- 
bles— so  did  Bridget — so  did  the  whole  family. 
They  were  troubles  of  a  kind  not  easily  dis- 
guised :  and,  besides,  Mr.  Scanlan  was  so  in- 
cautious and  careless  in  his  talk  before  both 
servant  and  children,  that  to  keep  things  con- 
cealed from  either  was  nearly  impossible.  Mrs. 
Scanlan  had  tried  to  do  it  as  much  as  she  could, 
especially  when  Cesar  and  Adrienne,  growing 
up  a  big  boy  and  girl,  began  to  enter  into  their 
mother's  cares  with  a  precocious  anxiety  pain- 
ful to  witness ;  but  at  last  she  gave  up  the  at- 
tempt in  despair,  and  let  matters  take  their 
chance.  Better  they  should  know  every  thing 
than  take  garbled  statements  or  false  and  fool- 
ish notions  into  their  little  heads.  Were  not 
the  children's  souls  in  the  mother's  hand  ? — she 
believed  so. 

"  Yes,  Adrienne,  my  pet,  you  need  not  fret 
any  more.  Mr.  Oldham  has  increased  papa's 
salary :  we  must  all  be  grateful  to  him,  and  do 
as  much  as  ever  we  can  for  him  to  the  end  of 
his  days." 

"  Must  we?  Oh,  of  course  we  will !  But, 
mamma,  if,  as  papa  has  just  been  telling  me, 
the  rector  has  paid  him  far  too  little,  why  need 


we  be  so  exceedingly  grateful?  It  is  but 
fair." 

Mrs.  Scanlan  made  no  reply.  Again  the 
thorn  pressed,  and  another,  a  much  sharper- 
pricking  thorn,  which  wounded  her  sometimes. 
When  the  father  could  get  no  better  company, 
he  used  to  talk  to  the  children,  particularly  to 
Adrienne,  and  often  put  into  the  little  innocent 
minds  ideas  and  feelings  which  took  the  mother 
days  and  weeks  to  eradicate.  She  could  not 
say  plainly,  "Your  father  has  been  telling  you 
what  is  not  true,"  or  "Papa  takes  quite  a  mis- 
taken idea  of  the  matter,  which  is  in  reality  so 
and  so :"  all  she  could  do  was  to  trust  to  her 
own  strong  influence,  and  that  of  time,  in  silent- 
ly working  things  round.  That  daringly  self- 
reliant  and  yet  pathetic  motto  of  Philip  II., 
"Time  and  I  against  any  two,"  often  rung 
in  the  head  of  this  poor,  brave,  lonely  woman 
— forced  into  unnatural  unwomanliness — until 
sometimes  she  almost  hated  herself,  and  thought, 
could  she  meet  herself  like  any  other  person, 
Josephine  Scanlan  would  have  been  the  last 
person  she  would  have  cared  to  know ! 

"Adrienne,  we  "will  not  discuss  the  question 
of  fairness  just  now.    Enough  that  Mr.  Oldham 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


61 


is  a  very  good  man,  whom  both  papa  and  I  ex- 
ceedingly respect  and  like." 

"  I  don't  think  papa  likes  him  ;  for  he  is  al- 
ways laughing  at  him  and  his  oddities." 

"  We  often  laugh  at  people  for  whom  we  feel 
most  kindly,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  formally,  as  if 
enunciating  a  moral  axiom;  and  then,  while 
drawing  the  little  thin  arms  round  her  neck, 
and  noticing  the  prematurely  eager  and  anxious 
face,  the  thought  that  her  frail,  delicate  flower 
would  never  be  broken  by  the  sharp  blasts  of 
poverty,  came  with  such  a  tide  of  thankfulness 
that  Josephine  felt  she  could  bear  any  other 
trouble  now.  Ay,  even  the  difficult  task  of 
meeting  her  husband  and  telling  him  only  half 
that  was  in  her  mind :  of  having  afterward,  for 
An  indefinite  time,  to  go  on  walking  and  talk- 
ing, eating  and  sleeping  beside  him,  carrying 
on  their  ordinary  daily  life,  conscious  every  in- 
stant of  the  secret  so  momentous  which  she 
dared  not  in  the  smallest  degree  betray. 

Yet  she  was  on  the  point  of  betraying  it  with- 
in the  first  half  hour. 

Edward  Scanlan  had  seized  upon  the  check 
with  the  eagerness  of  a  boy.  One  of  the  ex- 
cuses his  wife  often  made  for  him  was,  that  in 
many  things  he  was  so  very  boy-like  still,  and 
could  not  be  judged  by  the  laws  which  regulate 
duty  to  a  man,  now  considerably  past  thirty,  a 
husband,  and  the  father  of  a  family;  for  he 
seemed  as  if  he  had  never  been  bom  to  carry 
the  weight  of  these  "  encumbrances. "  Delight- 
edly he  looked  at  the  sum,  which  represented  to 
his  sanguine  mind  an  income  of  unlimited  ca- 
pacity. He  began  reckoning  up  all  he  wanted, 
for  himself  and  the  household  ;  and  had  spent 
half  the  money  already  in  imagination,  while  his 
wife  was  telling  him  how  she  had  obtained  it. 

On  this  head,  however,  he  was  not  inquisi- 
tive. It  was  obtained,  and  that  was  enough. 
He  never  noticed  the  blanks  in  her  story — her 
many  hesitations,  her  sad  shamefacedness,  and 
her  occasional  caresses,  as  if  she  wished  to  atone 
for  some  unconscious  wrong  done  toward  him 
which  her  tender  conscience  could  not  help 
grieving  for,  even  though  he  himself  might 
neither  feel  it  nor  know  it. 

But  when  she  told  him  of  all  she  had  done 
in  Ditchley  as  she  passed,  and  of  the  large  sum 
she  was  to  pay  away  the  following  morning,  Mr. 
Scanlan  was  exceedingly  displeased. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  hurry  you  are  in !  As 
if  those  impertinent  fellows  could  not  wait  a 
little,  after  having  bothered  us  so  much.  I've 
a  great  mind  not  to  pay  them  for  ever  so  long, 
only  that  would  look  so  odd  in  a  clergyman." 

"Or  in  any  man,"  said  the  wife,  quietly. 
"Here  is  the  list  of  what  we. owe;  we  must 
think  twice,  you  see,  before  we  lay  out  the  re- 
mainder." 

^^  What,  are  you  going  to  pay  away  all  that 
money  at  once?  Why,  you  might  as  well  have 
brought  me  home  nothing  at  all!  We  shall  be 
none  the  better  for  Oldham's  'generosity,'  as 
you  call  it.  Generosity,  indeed !  When  you 
were  at  it,  Josephine,  and  he  allowed  you  carte 


blanche,  why  in  the  yorld  didn't  you  ask  him  for 
a  little  more  ?" 

Josephine  rose  in  warm  indignation.  "  Ask 
him  for  more,  when  he  has  already  given  us  so 
much  ?     When  he  is  going  to  give  us — " 

Every  thing,  she  was  about  to  say,  but  stopped 
herself  just  in  time.  Not,  however,  before  Ed- 
ward's sharp  ears — I  have  already  said,  he  was 
at  once  careless  and  cunning  in  money-matters 
— had  caught  the  word. 

"  Given  us  what  ?  More  silk  gowns,  or  books 
for  the  children,  or  garden-stuff  for  the  house  ? 
These  are  his  principal  sort  of  gifts — mere  rub- 
bish !  He  never  gives  any  thing  to  me  :  never 
seems  to  consider  the  sacrifice  I  am  making 
every  day  I  stay  on  in  stupid  Ditchley.  And 
yet  he  must  know  my  value,  or  he  never  would 
have  increased  my  salary  as  he  has  done  to- 
day. It  is  just  a  conscience  twinge,  or  because 
he  knows  he  could  not  get  any  body  else  to  do 
my  work  for  the  money." 

"  You  know  he  could,  Edward.  He  told  me 
plainly  that  for  half  your  salary  he  could  get 
twenty  curates  to-morrow." 
^  "  But  not  a  curate  like  me !" 
*  Mrs.  Scanlan  looked  silently  at  her  husband. 
Perhaps  she  was  taking  his  measure ;  perhaps 
she  had  taken  it  long  ago ;  and  accepted  the 
fact  that,  whatever  he  was,  he  was  her  husband 
— possessed  of  certain  qualities  which  he  could 
no  more  help  than  he  could  the  color  of  his 
hair ;  a  rather  lofty  estimate  of  the  individual 
called  Edward  Scanlan  was  one  of  them. 

"Don't  you  think,  Edward,  that  instead  of 
arguing  about  our  blessings  in  this  way,  we  had 
better  accept  them,  and  be  thankful  for  them  ? 
I  am,  I  know." 

But  no,  the  mean  soul  is  never  thankful. 
Into  its  capacious  maw  endless  benefits  from 
heaven  and  from  man — that  is,  from  heaven 
through  man — may  be  poured,  and  still  the  cry 
is  continually,  "Give,  give!"  and  the  moment 
the  gifts  stop  the  murmurs  begin  again. 

Before  Edward  Scanlan  had  ended  his  first 
five  minutes  of  rejoicing  over  his  unexpectedly 
large  check,  he  began  to  feel  annoyed  that  it 
was  not  larger.  It  was  not  until  his  wife, 
watching  him  with  those  clear,  righteous  eyes 
of  hers,  made  him  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  him- 
self, that  he  vouchsafed  to  own  she  had  "done 
pretty  well"  in  her  mission  of  the  morning. 

"  A  hard  day's  work,  too,  it  was,  my  dear ;  a 
long  walk  and  a  good  deal.of  talking.  You  are 
a  very  good  wife  to  me,  and  I  owe  you  much." 

Josephine  smiled.  Yes,  it  had  been  a  hard 
day's  work  to  her,  and  he  did  owe  her  much ; 
rather  more  than  he  knew.  It  is  astonishing 
how  often  people  apologize  for  errors  never  com- 
mitted and  wrongs  never  perceived,  while  the 
real  errors,  the  most  cniel  wrongs,  are  not  even 
guessed  at  by  the  parties  concerned  in  the  in- 
fliction of  them. 

While  Mrs.  Scanlan  busied  herself  in  prepar- 
ing the  tea  or  in  holding  baby  Catherine  while 
Bridget  laid  the  cloth — Bridget,  who,  of  course, 
had  quickly  learned  every  thing,  and  hovered 


62 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


about  her  mistress  with  eyes  of  rapturous  con- 
gratulation and  admiration — it  did  occur  to  her 
that  there  must  be  something  a  little  wrong 
somewhere ;  that  there  was  an  incongruousness, 
almost  amounting  to  the  ludicrous,  in  the  rec- 
tor's future  heiress  doing  all  these  menial  du- 
ties. But  the  idea  amused  more  than  perplexed 
her :  and  ere  many  hours  had  passed  the  whole 
thing  seemed  to  grow  so  unreal,  that  next  morn- 
ing when  she  woke  up  she  almost  imagined  she 
had  dreamt  it  all. 

When,  a  few  days  after,  Mr.  Oldham  paid 
his  customary  visit  to  "Wren's  Nest,  she  took  an 
opportunity  of  expressing  her  gratitude  for  all 
his  kindness,  and  slightly  reverted  to  his  last 
words  over  the  garden  gate:  but  he  stopped 
her  at  once. 

"  Never  refer  to  that  again.  Perhaps  I  was 
a  fool  to  tell  you,  but  it's  done  now.  Only 
mind,  let  all  be  as  if  I  never  had  told  you." 

"I  am  sorry — if  your  reasons — " 

*'  My  reasons  are,  that  few  men  like  to  be  re- 
minded of  their  own  death  ;  I  don't.  I  shall 
keep  to  my  bargain,  Mrs.  Scanlan ;  but  if  you 
ever  name  it  again,  to  me  or  to  any  other  creat- 
ure, it  is  canceled.  Remember,  a  will  can  be 
burnt  as  easily  as  made." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Josephine,  though  with 
a  sense  of  humiliation  that  was  almost  agony. 
Mingled  with  it  came  a  sudden  fear,  the  faint, 
cold  fear  of  the  shipwrecked  sailor  who  has  seen 
a  speck  on  the  horizon  which  looks  like  a  sail, 
and  may  turn  out  to  be  no  sail  at  all,  or  else 
drifts  away  from  him — and  then?  Neverthe- 
less, she  had  self-control  enough  to  say  calmly, 
"I  quite  understand  you,  Mr,  Oldham,  and  I 
should  wish  you  always  to  do  exactly  what  you 
think  right." 

"I  believe  that,  Madame,  and  I  am  accord- 
ingly doing  it,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  return 
to  his  ordinary  suave  politeness,  and  calling  one 
of  the  children  in  to  the  conference  so  that  it 
could  not  possibly  be  continued. 

It  never  was  either  continued  or  revived. 
The  rector's  silence  on  the  subject  was  so  com- 
plete that  oftentimes  during  the  long  months 
and  years  which  followed  Josephine  could 
scarcely  force  herself  to  believe  there  was  any 
truth  in  what  he  had  told  her,  or  that  it  was 
not  entirely  the  product  of  her  own  vivid  imag- 
ination. 

But  at  first  she  accepted  her  good  fortune 
with  fullness  of  faith,  and  rejoiced  in  it  unlimit- 
edly.  It  was  such  an  innocent  rejoicing  too ; 
it  harmed  nobody:  took  away  from  nobody's 
blessings.  The  fortune  must  come  to  some 
one ;  the  good  old  man  could  not  caiTy  it  away 
with  him  ;  he  would  enjoy  it  to  the  full  as  long 
as  he  lived,  and  by  the  time  death  touched  him 
he  would  just  drop  off  like  the  last  leaf  from  the 
bough,  perhaps  not  sorry  to  go,  and  gladdened 
in  his  final  hour  by  the  feeling  that  his  death 
would  benefit  other  lives,  young  and  bright, 
ready  to  take  up  the  ended  hope,  and  carry  it 
triumphantly  on  to  future  generations. 

That  desire  of  founding  a  family,  of  living 


again  in  her  posterity,  was  I  think  peculiarly 
strong  in  Josephine  Scanlan.  The  passionate 
instinct  of  motherhood — perhaps  the  deepest 
instinct  women  have — (and  God  knows  they 
need  to  have  it,  to  help  them  along  that  thorny 
path  which  every  mother  has  trod  since  mother 
Eve) — in  her  did  not  end  with  her  own  chil- 
dren. She  sometimes  sat  and  dreamed  of  her 
future  race,  the  new  generations  that  should  be 
bom  of  her,  impressed  with  her  soul  and  body 
— for  she  rather  admired  her  bodily  self,  it  was 
so  like  her  father — dreamed  of  them  as  poets 
dream  of  fame  and  conquerors  of  glory.  She 
often  looked  at  her  Cesar — who  after  the  curi- 
ous law  by  which  nature  so  often  reproduces  the 
father  in  the  daughter,  and  again  in  the  daugh- 
ter's son,  was  an  almost  startling  likeness  of  the 
old  Vicomte  de  Bougainville — and  thought, 
with  a  joy  she  could  scarcely  repress,  of  the  old 
race  revived,  though  the  name  was  gone ;  of 
her  boy  inheriting  fortune  and  position  enough 
to  maintain  the  dignity  of  that  race  before  all 
the  world. 

And  then  Cesar  was  such  a  good  boy,  simple- 
minded,  dutiful ;  chivalric  and  honorable  in  all 
his  feelings ;  so  exactly  after  the  old  type  of 
the  De  Bougainvilles,  who  had  once  fought  for 
their  country  as  bravely  as  at  last,  for  religion's 
sake,  they  fled  from  it ;  sustaining  through  all 
reverses  the  true  nobility,  which  found  its  out- 
let in  the  old  Vicomte's  favorite  motto,  "No- 
blesse oblige."  Josephine  watched  the  lad 
growing  taller  and  handsomer,  bolder  and  stron- 
ger, month  by  month  and  year  by  year,  much 
as  Sarah  must  have  watched  Isaac ;  seeing  in 
him  not  only  Isaac  her  son,  but  Isaac  the  child 
of  promise,  and  the  father  of  unborn  millions. 

I  think  Mrs.  Scanlan  must  have  been  very 
happy  about  this  time.  Her  worldly  load  was 
completely  taken  off  her  shoulders  for  the  time 
being.  She  had  enough  and  to  spare.  She 
could  pay  all  her  debts,  and  give  her  children 
many  comforts  that  had  long  been  lacking. 
She  had  not  the  sharp  sense  of  angry  pain 
which  she  used  to  experience,  ever  and  anon, 
when,  after  waiting  week  after  week  till  she 
could  fairly  afford  Adrienne  a  new  warm  cloak, 
or  Cesar  a  pair  of  winter  boots,  their  father 
would  come  in  quite  cheerily,  and  claim  her 
admiration  for  a  heap  of  musty  volumes ;  valu- 
able and  expensive  theological  works  which  he 
had  just  purchased  :  not  that  he  wanted  to  read 
them ;  he  was  no  great  reader  at  any  time ;  but 
"  they  looked  so  well  for  a  clergyman  to  have  in 
his  library."  And  when  she  remonstrated,  he 
would  argue  how  much  better  food  for  the  mind 
was  than  clothes  for  the  body ;  and  how  a  good 
wife  ought  always  to  prefer  her  husband's  tastes 
to  her  children's.  And  it  was  so  easy  to  talk, 
and  Edward  Scanlan's  arguments  were  so  vol- 
uminous, that  sometimes  he  half  convinced,  his 
wife  she  was  in  the  wrong ;  till,  left  alone,  her 
honest  conscience  went  back  with  a  bound,  like 
a  half-strung  bow,  to  the  old  conviction.  She 
knew  not  how  to  say  it,  but  somehow  she  felt 
it,  and  all  the  eloquence  in  the  world  could  not 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


63 


convince  hei  that  black  was  white,  or  perhaps 
only  gray — very  delicately  and  faintly  gray. 

But  now  the  sunshine  of  hope  which  had 
fallen  across  her  path — or  still  more,  her  fu- 
ture path — seemed  to  warm  Josephine's  nature 
through  and  through,  and  make  her  more  leni- 
ent toward  every  one,  especially  her  husband. 
She  felt  drawn  to  him  by  a  reviving  tenderness, 
which  he  might  have  a  little  missed  of  late  had 
he  been  a  sensitive  man  ;  but  he  was  not.  His 
wrongs  and  unhappinesses  were  more  of  the 
material  than  spiritual  kind — more  for  himself 
than  for  other  people.  He  regretted  extreme- 
ly his  children's  shabby  clothes,  but  it  never 
struck  him  to  be  anxious  because  their  minds 
were  growing  up  more  ill-clad  than  their  bodies. 
For  they  had  little  or  no  education ;  and  for 
society  scarcely  any  beyond  Bridget's  and  their 
mother's,  though  they  might  have  had  worse, 
at  any  rate. 

Mr.  Scanlan  was  exceedingly  troubled  about 
the  present,  because  the  luxuries  of  life  were 
so  terribly  wanting  at  Wren's  Nest :  but  he 
rarely  perplexed  himself  about  the  future — his 
own  or  his  family's.  Whatever  pleased  him  at 
the  time,  he  did,  and  was  satisfied  with  doing : 
he  never  looked  ahead,  not  for  a  single  day. 
"Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,"  was  a  fa- 
vorite text  of  his  whenever  his  wife  expressed 
any  anxiety.  What  on  earth  could  she  find  to 
be  anxious  about  ? — she  was  not  the  bread-win- 
ner of  the  family.  It  was  he  who  had  to  bear 
all  these  burdens,  and  very  sincerely  he  pitied 
himself;  so  much  so  that  at  times  his  wife  pitied 
him  too,  believing  him,  not  untruly,  to  be  one 
of  those  characters  whose  worst  faults  are  elimi- 
nated by  adversity.     For  the  fact  that 

"  Satan  now  is  wiser  than  pf  yore, 
And  tempts  by  making  rich,  not  making  poor," 

was  not  then  credited  by  Josephine  Scanlan. 
She  still  felt  that  the  man  of  Uz  was  supreme 
in  his  afflictions ;  and  often  she  read  the  Book 
of  Job  with  a  strange  sort  of  sympathy.  True, 
she  did  not  understand  half  his  trials — "her 
children  were  with  her  in  the  house ;"  her  "  can- 
dle" was  still  '*in  its  place" — that  bright  light 
of  contentment  which  illumined  all  the  pov- 
erty of  Wren's  Nest.  Health  was  there  too : 
for  the  lightly- fed  and  hardly- worked  enjoy 
oftentimes  a  wonderful  immunity  from  sickness. 
But  still  it  seemed  to  her  that  these  blessings 
were  not  so  very  blessed,  or  lack  of  money  neu- 
tralized them  all,  at  least  with  regard  to  her 
husband. 

His  complainings,  she  fondly  hoped,  would  be 
quieted  by  prosperity :  when  they  had  a  larger 
house,  and  she  could  get  the  children  out  of  his 
way  in  some  distant  nursery ;  when  he  had  more 
servants  to  wait  upon  him,  more  luxuries  to 
gratify  him,  and  fewer  opportunities  of  growing 
discontented  by  the  daily  contrast  between  his 
neighboi's'  wealth  and  his  own  poverty.  For, 
unfortunately,  there  were  not  many  "  poor"  peo- 
ple in  Ditchley,  society  being  composed  of  the 
county  families,  the  well-oflF  townsfolk,  and  the 


working-classes.  And  Mr.  Scanlan  was  always 
more  prone  to  compare  himself  with  those  above 
him  than  those  below  him,  wondering  why  Prov- 
idence had  not  more  equally  balanced  things, 
and  why  those  stupid  squires  and  contented 
shop-keepers  should  have  so  much  money  to  do 
what  they  liked  with,  and  he  so  little — he  whose 
likings  were  of  such  a  refined  and  superior  or- 
der that  it  seemed  a  sin  and  shame  they  should 
be  denied  gratification. 

For,  as  he  reasoned,  and  his  wife  tried  to  rea- 
son too,  his  pleasures  were  all  so  harmless.  He 
was  no  drunkard — though  he  liked  a  glass  of 
wine  well  enough  ;•  he  seldom  philandered  with 
young  ladies,  except  in  the  mildest  clerical  way ; 
was  never  long  absent  from  home ;  and,  as  for 
his  extraordinary  talent  for  getting  rid  of  mon- 
ey, he  got  rid  of  it  certainly  in  no  wicked  way, 
but  scattered  it  about  more  with  the  innocent 
recklessness  of  a  child  than  the  deliberate  ex- 
travagance of  a  man.  It  was  hard  to  stint  him, 
still  harder  to  blame  him  ;  much  easier  to  blame 
"circumstances" — which  made  all  the  differ- 
ence between  a  harmless  amusement  and  a  se- 
rious error.  When  he  was  a  rich  man  he  would 
be  quite  different. 

At  least  so  thought  his  wife,  and  tried  to  ex- 
cuse him,  and  make  the  best  of  him,  and  believe 
in  all  his  possible  capacities  for  good  ;  also  in 
the  actual  good  there  was  in  him,  which  might 
have  satisfied  some  people,  who  are  content  to 
accept  as  virtue  the  mere  negation  of  vice,  or 
to  rule  their  affections  by  the  safe  law  which  I 
have  heard  enunciated  by  mediocre  goodness 
concerning  absolute  badness :  "  Why  should  I 
dislike  the  man  when  he  has  never  harmed 
me  ?"  But  to  a  woman  whose  standard  of  right 
was  distinct  from  any  personal  benefit  received 
by  her,  or  personal  injury  done  to  her;  who 
loved  for  love's  sake,  and  hated  only  where  she 
despised  ;  who  had  begun  life  with  a  high  ideal, 
and  a  passionate  necessity  for  its  realization  in 
all  her  dear  ones,  especially  the  dearest  and 
closest  of  all — her  husband — to  such  a  one, 
what  must  this  kind  of  married  life  have  been  ? 

Still,  her  heart  grew  tenderer  over  the  father 
of  her  children.  She  saw  him,  and  all  he  did 
— or  rather  all  he  left  undone — in  the  fairest 
light.  When  he  grumbled  she  took  it  very  pa- 
tiently, more  patiently  than  usual,  thinking  with 
satisfaction  of  her  comfortable  secret — how  all 
these  annoyances  were  only  temporary ;  how  he 
would  by-and-by  become  a  rich  man,  able  to  in- 
dulge himself  as  he  chose.  For  in  her  heart 
she  liked  to  see  her  husband  happy — liked  to 
give  him  any  lawful  pleasures,  and  minister 
even  to  his  whims  and  vagaries,  when  this  could 
be  done  conscientiously,  without  her  having  the 
pang  of  knowing  that  every  selfish  luxury  of  the 
father's  was  taking  the  very  bread  out  of  the 
mouths  of  the  children.  Not  that  he  did  this 
intentionally ;  but  he  did  do  it ;  because  the 
even  balance  and  necessity  of  things  was  a  mat- 
ter Edward  Scanlan  could  never  be  taught  to 
undei'stand. 

Still,  he  was  very  good,  on  the  whole,  for 


64 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


some  time  after  he  received  this  addition  to  his 
income.  It  allowed  him  more  pleasures ;  it 
lessened  his  wife's  cares,  and  made  her  less 
obliged  to  contradict  him.  She  grew  softer  in 
her  manner  to  him — and  Edward  Scanlan  was 
one  who  thought  much  about  outside  manner, 
without  troubling  himself  to  investigate  what 
feelings  lay  beneath.  In  their  mutual  relief  of 
mind  the  husband  and  wife  drew  nearer  togeth- 
er— dangerously  so,  for  the  preservation  of  Mr. 
Oldham's  secret. 

Righteous  hypocrite  as  she  fully  believed  she 
was,  Mrs.  Scanlan  often  felt  herself  to  be  a  ter- 
rible hypocrite  after  all.  Twenty  times  a  day 
she  longed  to  throw  her  arms  round  her  hus- 
band's neck,  and  whisper  that  she  had  a  secret 
— though  one  which  did  not  injure  him,  quite 
the  contrary !  Whenever  he  was  vexed  about 
little  things,  she  thirsted  to  tell  him  that  his 
poverty  days  would  not  last  forever — that  she 
would  by-and-by  be  a  rich  heiress,  able  to  give 
him  all  he  wanted,  and  rejoice  in  the  giving. 
That  keenest  joy  of  wealth — to  lavish  it  upon 
others — flashed  out  sometimes  from  the  distant 
future,  with  a  glow  that  lightened  for  her  many 
a  present  gloom. 

Still,  things  were  hard  now  and  then,  and 
she  had  many  a  twinge  of  conscience  as  to  how 
far  she  was  doing  right,  and  what  her  husband 
would  think  of  her  when  he  really  knew  all,  as 
he  necessarily  must,  some  day.  More  than 
once  she  definitively  resolved  to  go  and  speak 
to  the  rector — whether  he  liked  it  or  not ;  un- 
burden herself  of  all  her  doubts,  and  implore 
him  to  free  her  from  her  promise,  and  take 
away  this  load  from  her  heart — a  load  heavier 
than  he,  as  a  bachelor,  could  comprehend. 
Little  he  knew  how  fatal  to  happiness  is  any 
concealment  between  married  people,  whose 
chief  strength  and  surest  consolation  lies  in  be- 
ing, for  good  and  ill,  absolutely  and  perfectly  one. 

With  this  intent  Josephine  had  actually  one 
day  put  on  her  bonnet,  meaning  to  go  to  pay  a 
visit  to  the  Rectory,  ostensibly  to  excuse  herself 
and  the  children  from  a  tea-party  there — a  feast 
on  the  lawn — the  year  had  again  come  round 
to  the  time  of  open-air  delights — when  her  hus- 
band entered  the  room,  and  asked  her  where 
she  was  going. 

Her  answer  was,  of  course,  the  truth,  though 
not,  alas !  the  whole  truth. 

"Excuse  yourself  from  the  Rectory  feast? 
What  a  ridiculous  thing !  To  decline  Mr.  Old- 
ham's invitation,  because  the  children  had  an 
engagement  elsewhere  —  at  a  common  farm- 
house, too!" 

Still,  Josephine  reasoned,  it  was  a  prior  en- 
gagement ;  and  the  people  at  the  farm  had  been 
very  kind  to  the  children. 

"But  they  are  such  unimportant  people. 
Annoying  them  does  not  matter ;  now  annoy- 
ing Mr.  Oldham  does.  I  never  noticed  the 
thing  much  till  lately,  when  some  neighbor  or 
other  put  it  into  my  head ;  but  Oldham  does 
seem  to  have  taken  an  extraordinary  fancy  for 
our  children." 


"They  are  very  good  children,"  said  the 
mother,  with  a  slight  trembling  of  the  voice. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course.  And  pretty,  too — some 
of  them.  Don't  be  up  in  arms  on  their  account, 
mamma,  as  if  I  were  always  crying  them  down. 
I  see  their  good  points  just  as  much  as  you  do. 
And  if  the  old  fellow  really  has  taken  a  liking 
to  them,  I'm  sure  I  don't  object  to  your  culti- 
vating him  as  much  as  ever  you  like." 
"  Cultivating  him !— " 

"I  mean— with  an  eye  to  his  leaving  them, 
something.  He  can't  live  forever  ;  and  when 
he  dies,  some  small  sum — even  a  hundred  or 
two — would  be  a  great  help  to  us." 

Josephine  stood  dumb.  Oh,  if  she  had  had 
the  free,  clear  conscience  of  a  year  ago,  how  in- 
dignantly she  would  have  repudiated  such  a 
motive !  as  she  used  to  do  all  other  similar  mo- 
tives of  self-interest  or  expediency,  which  her 
husband  occasionally  suggested  to  her.  For 
this  lavish,  frank-spoken,  open-hearted  young 
Celt  had  also  the  true  Celtic  characteristic  of 
never  being  blind  to  his  own  interests.  Care- 
less as  he  was,  he  knew  quite  well  on  which  side 
his  bread  was  buttered ;  and  under  all  his  reck- 
less generosity  lay  a  stratum  of  meanness : 
which  indeed  is  generally  found  a  necessary 
adjunct  to  the  aforesaid  qualities. 

He  noticed  his  wife's  silence :  at  which  his 
sensitive  love  of  approbation — to  call  it  by  a 
lighter  name  than  vanity — immediately  took 
offense. 

"  You  think  that  was  a  wrong  thing  of  me  to 
say?  But  you  always  do  find  fault  with  any 
new  ideas  of  mine.  You  would  like  every  thing 
to  originate  with  yourself ! " 

Josephine  answered  only  the  first  half  of  his 
sentence.  "  I  think  it  wrong  to  '  cultivate'  any 
body  for  the  sake  of  what  you  can  get  out  of 
him.  And  you  know  the  proverb,  '  It's  ill 
waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes.'  " 

"But  how  can  one  help  it  when  one  has  to 
go  barefoot  ?" 

"Which  is  not  exactly  our  case,  Edward. 
We  have  as  much  as  we  require ;  and  we  need 
not  be  beholden  to  any  man — thank  God ! " 

"You  are  thankful  for  small  mercies,"  said 
Edward  Scaolan,  bitterly-— very  bitterly  for  a 
clergyman.  "But,  putting  aside  the  future, 
don't  you  think  Mr.  Oldham  might  do  some- 
thing for  us  at  present,  if  he  knew  we  wanted 
help  ?  For  instance,  last  Sunday,  in  the  vest- 
ry, he  was  preaching  to  me  a  little  extra  ser- 
mon about  Cesar,  noticing  what  a  big  boy  he 
was  growing,  and  asking  me  what  I  intended 
to  do  with  him — when  he  was  to  go  to  school, 
and  where  ?  Rather  impertinent  interference, 
I  thought." 

"He  meant  it  well,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan, 
humbly,  and  with  averted  eyes :  afraid  of  be- 
traying in  any  way  the  comfort  it  was  to  find 
out  that  the  rector  was  not  indiflferent  to  a 
fact  which  had  haunted  herself  for  many  cruel 
weeks — how  her  handsome,  manly  Cesar  was 
growing  up  in  a  state  of  rough  ignorance,  lam- 
entable in  any  gentleman's  son,  and  especially 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


65 


to  be  deplored  in  one  who  might  have  to  fill  a 
good  position  in  society,  where  he  would  one 
day  bitterly  feel  every  defect  in  education. 

"  Meant  well  ?  Oh,  of  course  a  rector  is  al- 
ways supposed  to  mean  well  toward  a  curate, 
or  the  poor  curate  is  obliged  to  take  it  so,  as  I 
shall.  But  my  idea  was  this :  that  since  he 
is  so  anxious  that  the  lad  should  be  well  edu- 
cated— which  we  can  not  possibly  afford — per- 
haps, if  the  matter  were  cleverly  put  before  him 
— and  you  have  such  a  clever  way  of  doing 
things,  dearest — Mr.  Oldham  might  send  Ce- 
sar to  school  himself. " 

Josephine  started.  "I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand you,"  she  said. 

No — sometimes  she  really  did  not  under- 
stand her  husband.  She  found  herself  making 
egregious  mistakes  concerning  him  and  his 
motives.  To  put  a  most  sad  thing  in  a  ludi- 
crous light  (as  how  often  do  we  not  do  in  this 
world  ?)  her  position  was  like  that  of  the  great 
cat  trying  to  get  through  the  little  cat's  hole : 
her  large  nature  was  perpetually  at  fault  in  cal- 
culating the  smallness  of  his. 

"Not  understand!  Why,  Josephine,  the 
thing  is  as  plain  as  a  pikestaiF.  Don't  you 
see  how  much  we  should  save  if  Mr.  Old- 
liam  could  be  induced  to  send  Ce'sar  to  school 
at  his  own  expense?  It  is  no  uncommon 
thing.  Many  a  rich  man  has  done  it  for  a 
poor  man's  son,  who  turned  out  a  credit  to 
him  afterward  :  as  Cesar  might,  and  then  the 
obligation  would  be  rather  on  Mr.  Oldham's 
side,  in  my  having  consented  to  the  thing.  In- 
deed," growing  warmer  as  he  argued,  "it 
would  be  a  very  good  thing  on  both  sides. 
And  I  could  then  afford  to  pay  that  visit  to 
London  which  Summerhayes  is  always  bother- 
ing me  about,  and  considers  would  be  such  an 
advantage  to  myself  and  the  family." 

Still  Josephine  was  silent ;  but  her  face 
clouded  over  and  hardened  into  the  expression 
which  her  husband  knew  well  enough,  and  was 
in  his  secret  heart  a  little  afraid  of.  He  was 
thus  far  a  good  fellow — he  respected  and  loved 
his  good  wife  very  sincerely. 

"  I  see  you  don't  like  either  of  these  notions 
of  mine,  my  dear,  especially  about  Cesar.  You 
know  Mr.  Oldham  pretty  well,  perhaps  even 
better  than  I  do.  If  you  think  he  would  take 
offense  at  such  a  hint — " 

"I  should  never  dream  of  hinting  any  thing 
to  Mr.  Oldham.  If  I  wanted  to  ask  of  him  a 
kindness  I  should  ask  it  direct,  and  I  believe 
he  would  grant  it.  But  to  beg  from  him  indi- 
rectly the  help  which  we  do  not  really  need — " 

"  We  do  need  it.  Cesar  must  go  to  school 
I  want  to  go  to  London.  And  we  can't  do 
both,  you  say." 

"No  we  can  not.  It  is  impossible.  But  it 
is  equally  impossible  for  us  to  accept  favors,  or 
to  beg  for  any,  from  Mr.  Oldham." 

"  So  you  say,  but  I  entirely  differ  from  you. 
It  is  no  favor:  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his 
hir«." 

"  And  the  beggar  is  worthy  of  both  his  kicks 
E 


and  his  half-pence.  But,  Edward,  I  will  take 
neither.  You  know  my  mind.  Many  a  free, 
honest,  honorable  kindness  may  one  man  have 
to  owe  to  another,  and  both  be  benefited  there- 
by ;  but  to  ask  from  another  any  thing  that  by 
any  amount  of  personal  sacrifice  one  could  do 
for  one's  self  is  a  meanness  I  have  not  been 
used  to.  My  father  never  would  stoop  to  it, 
nor  shall  my  son." 

Quietly  as  she  said  them,  they  were  stinging 
words :  such  as  she  could  use  on  occasions. 
She  was  not  a  stupid  woman,  nor  a  tame  wo- 
man; and  in  her  youth  the  "soft  answer," 
which  is  often  woman's  best  strength,  did  not 
always  come.  She  was  fierce  against  wrong 
rather  than  patient  with  it — outraged  and  in- 
dignant where  it  might  have  been  wiser  to  be 
quietly  brave.  Though  not  too  thin-skinned, 
ordinarily,  to-day  her  husband  winced  as  if  she 
had  been  whipping  him  with  nettles.  For  he 
knew  what  an  idol  Josephine's  father  had  been 
to  her,  and  how  well  the  noble  old  nobleman 
had  deserved  that  worship.  Poor  Edward 
Scanlan  was  a  little  cowed  even  before  the  dim 
ghost  of  the  dead  Vicomte  de  Bougainville. 

"Your  father — your  son.  Then  your  hus- 
band may  do  any  thing  he  chooses  ?  You  won't 
care.     He,  of  course,  is  quite  an  inferior  being. " 

"  Edward,  hush !     The  child ! " 

For  Adrienne  had  put  her  tiny  pale  face  in 
at  the  bedroom  door,  outside  which  she  often 
hovered  like  an  anxious  spirit  when  her  father 
and  mother  were  talking. 

"  The  child  may  hear  it  all,"  said  Mr.  Scan- 
lan, glad  to  escape  from  a  diflSculty.  "Look 
here,  Adrienne;  the  difference  between  your 
mother  and  me  is  this :  I  want  you  to  go  to  the 
Rectory  to-morrow — she  wishes  to  take  you  to 
the  farm ;  which  should  you  like  best  ?" 

The  perplexed  child  looked  from  one  parent 
to  the  other.  "I  thought,  papa,  you  did  not 
care  for  Mr.  Oldham ;  you  are  always  finding 
fault  with  him,  or  laughing  at  him." 

"What  a  sharp  child  it  is!"  said  Mr.  Scan- 
lan, extremely  amused.  "Never  mind,  Adri- 
enne, whether  I  like  Mr.  Oldham  or  not ;  I  wish 
you  to  go  and  see  him  whenever  he  asks  you : 
and  always  be  sure  to  pay  him  particular  atten- 
tion, for  he  may  be  very  useful  to  both  me  and 
my  family." 

"Yes,  papa,"  replied  innocent  Adrienne, 
though  not  without  a  shy  glance  at  her  mother 
for  assent  and  approval. 

The  mother  stepped  forward,  pale  and  firm, 
but  with  a  fierce  light  glittering  in  her  eyes ; 

"  Yes,  Adrienne,  I  too  wish  you  to  pay  Mr. 
Oldham  all  proper  attention,  because  he  is  a 
good  man  who  has  heaped  us  all  with  kind- 
nesses ;  because,  though  wo  will  never  ask  any 
more  from  him,  we  can  not  show  sufiicient 
gratitude  for  those  we  have  already  received.^ 
Therefore,  since  papa  particularly  desires  it,  we 
will  give  up  the  farm  and  go  to  the  Rectory." 

' '  Thank  you,  my  dearest ;  you  are  very  good, " 
said  Edward  Scanlan,  quite  satisfied  and  molli- 
fied ;  and  on  leaving  the  room  he  went  over  to 


66 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


his  wife  and  kissed  her.  She  received  the  kiss, 
but  let  him  depart  without  a  word. 

Then,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  Josephine  put  it 
by,  mechanically  rolling  up  the  strings — a  habit 
she  had  to  make  them  last  the  longer — and  did 
various  other  things  about  her  drawers  in  an 
absent  sort  of  way — never  noticing  the  childish 
eyes  which  followed  her  every  motion.  But 
always  silently — Adrienne  was  such  a  very  quiet 
child.  Not  until  the  mother  sat  down  on  the 
bedside,  and  put  her  hands  over  her  dry,  hot 
eyes,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  did  she  feel  her  little 
daughter  creeping  behind  her,  to  clasp  around 
her  neck  cool,  soft  arms. 

*'Maman,  maman" — the  French  version  of 
the  word,  with  the  slight  French  accentuation 
of  the  first  syllable,  such  as  ber  children  gener- 
ally used  when  they  petted  her. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  turned  round  and  hid  her  fore- 
head on  the  little  bosom — leaving  a  wet  place 
where  her  eyes  had  lain  on  the  coarse  blue 
pinafore. 

She  said  nothing  to  Adrienne,  of  course ;  and 
henceforth  she  carefully  avoided  naming  to  her 
husband  the  subject  of  Cesar's  going  to*  school. 
But  she  made  up  her  mind  when  it  should  be 
done,  and  how,  during  those  ten  silent  minutes 
in  her  bedroom.  And  from  that  day  the  idea 
of  asking  Mr.  Oldham's  permission  to  tell  her 
husband  of  their  future  prospects  altogether 
passed  from  her  mind.  No ;  the  rector  was 
right  in  his  judgment :  she  herself  was  the  only 
safe  depositary  of  the  secret.  She  locked  it 
closer  than  ever  in  her  heart,  and  returned  to 
her  old  solitude  of  spirit — the  worst  of  all  soli- 
tudes— that  which  does  not  appear  outside. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  Scanlan  went  to  London.  How  he 
went  is  by  no  means  clear;  but  I  rather  sus- 
pect it  was  through  a  pearl  brooch,  which  a 
rich  and  warm-hearted  bride,  just  going  out 
to  India — a  neighbor's  daughter — greatly  de- 
siderated, and  purchased.  At  any  rate,  it 
came  about  somehow  that  Josephine's  purse 
was  full,  her  jewel-case  rather  empty,  and 
that  her  husband  took  his  jaunt  to  the  me- 
tropolis— a  pleasure  which  he  had  longed  for 
ever  since  Mr.  Summerhayes  began  his  yearly 
visits  to  Ditchley  and  the  neighborhood. 

I  do  not  want  to  depict  this  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes in  villainous  colors,  with  horns  and  a 
tail.  I  believe  the  very  personage  who  owns 
those  appendages  may  be  not  quite  as  black  as 
he  is  painted,  still  I  do  not  agree  with  those 
novel  writers  who  will  not  call  a  spade  a  spade 
^  — who  make  us  interested  in  murder,  lenient 
{  toward  bigamy,  and  amused  with  swindling, 
provided  only  it  be  picturesque.  There  does 
not  seem  to  me  such  a  wide  distinction  between 
the  vulgar  man  who  steals  a  leg  of  mutton  or  a 
loaf  of, bread,  and  the  "genteel"  man — let  me 
not  profane  the  word  "gentleman" — who  dines 
luxuriously,   but  never   thinks   of  paying  his 


butcher  or  baker;  who,  however  deficient  his 
income,  lives  always  at  ease,  upon  money  bor- 
rowed from  friends  or  kindred,  with  promise  of  ) 
speedy  return.  But  it  never  is  returned — was 
never  meant  to  be ;  and  the  man,  however 
charming  he  may  be,  is  neither  more  nor  less 
than  a  thief  and  a  liar,  and  ought  to  be  scouted 
by  society  as  such.  And  till  society  has  the 
courage  to  do  it — to  strip  the  fine  feathers  from 
these  fine  birds,  and  show  them  in  their  ugly 
bareness,  mean  as  any  crop-headed  convict  in 
Pentonville  Prison — so  long  will  the  world  be 
cumbered  with  them  and  the  miseries  they 
cause.  Not  to  themselves :  they  never  suffer, 
often  flourishing  on  like  green  bay-trees  to  the 
end,  or  almost  the  end  ;  but  to  other  and  most 
innocent  people,  who  unhappily  belong  to  ttem, 
and  perhaps  even  love  them. 

Mr.  Summerhayes  was  one  of  these,  and  he 
became  the  evil  genius  of  Mr.  Scanlan's  life. 
Though  younger  than  the  curate,  he  was  a  great 
deal  older  in  many  things  from  his  superior 
knowledge  of  the  world.  They  sympathized 
in  their  testes,  and  each  found  the  other  very 
convenient  and  amusing  company,  when,  year 
by  year,  Summerhayes  made  his  sketching  tour 
round  the  beautiful  neighborhood  of  Ditchley. 
There  were  great  diff"erences  between  them — for 
instance,  the  elder  man  was  weak  and  pliable, 
the  younger  cool-headed  and  determined  ;  the 
Irishman  possessed  a  fragment  of  a  heart  and 
the  ghost  of  a  conscience — the  Englishman  had 
neither.  On  many  points,  however,  they  were 
much  alike — with  enough  dissimilarity  to  make 
their  companionship  mutually  agreeable  and 
amusing.  And  as  in  both  the  grand  aim  of 
life  was  to  be  amused,  they  got  on  together  re- 
markably well.  Nay,  in  his  own  way,  Edward 
Scanlan  was  really  quite  fond  of  "my  friend 
Summerhayes." 

So  was  Cesar,  for  a  while  ;  so  was  Adrienne 
— with  the  intense  admiration  that  an  imagina- 
tive child  sometimes  conceives  for  a  young  man, 
clever,  brilliant,  beautiful,  godlike ;  in  so  much 
that  the  mother  was  rather  sorry  to  see  it,  and 
stopped  as  soon  as  she  could  without  observa- 
tion the  constant  petting  which  the  artist  be- 
stowed, summer  after  summer,  upon  his  little 
girl-slave,  who  followed  him  about  with  eyes  as 
loving  as  a  spaniel  dog.  This  year,  when  he 
succeeded  in  carrying  oif  their  father,  the  two 
children  envied  papa  exceedingly,  scarcely  so 
much  for  the  pleasures  of  London  as  for  the 
permanent  society  of  Mr.  Summerhayes. 

This,  however,  he  did  not  get,  as  he  soon 
found  himself  obliged  to  "  cut"  his  friend,  and 
the  set  the  artist  belonged  to — which,  in  spite 
of  their  irreligious  Bohemianism,  the  curate 
liked  extremely— for  the  sake  of  reviving  his 
own  former  acquaintances,  who  had  come  up 
to  attend  the  May  meetings  in  Exeter  Hall^ 
and  who  were  of  a  class,  aristocratic  and  cler- 
ical, who  looked  down  upon  painters,  poets, 
and  such  like,  as  devotees  to  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil — and  besides  not  exactly 
"respectable."      Mr.  Scanlan  had   to   choose 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


67 


between  them,  and  he  did  so — externally ;  but 
he  nevertheless  contrived  to  serve  two  mas- 
ters, in  a  way  that  excited  the  amusement  and 
loudly-expressed  admiration  of  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes. 

Often,  after  being  late  up  overnight,  in 
places  which  Exeter  Hall  could  never  have 
even  heard  of,  and  which,  to  do  him  justice, 
the  innocent  curate  of  Ditchley  knew  as  little 
about  as  any  young  lamb  of  his  fold  —  only 
8ummerhayes  asked  him  to  go,  and  he  went 
— after  this  he  would  appear  at  religious  break- 
fasts, given  by  evangelical  Earls,  and  pious 
Huchesses  dowager;  where  he  would  hold 
forth  for  hours,  delighted  to  see  reviving  his 
former  popularity.  This  did  not  happen  im- 
mediately. At  first  he  found  the  memories  of 
even  the  best  friends  grew  dulled  after  seven 
years'  absence;  but  many  were  kind  to  him 
still.  The  exceeding  sincerity  and  single- 
heartedness  often  found,  then  as  now,  among 
the  evangelical  party — making  them  associate 
alike  with  rich  and  poor,  patrician  and  ple- 
beian—  any  one  who,  like  themselves,  holds 
what  they  believe  to  be  "the  Gospel" — stood 
Edward  Scanlan  in  good  stead. 

After  he  had  succeeded  in  making  a  platform 
speech — full  of  the  Beast  with  seven  heads  and 
ten  horns,  the  Woman  in  scarlet,  and  other  fa- 
vorite allegories  by  which,  in  that  era  of  Cath- 
olic Emancipation  struggles,  the  Orange  party 
always  designated  the  Romish  Church — many 
of  his  old  admirers  rallied  round  the  once  pop- 
ular preacher.  But  he  was  in  London — not 
Dublin — and  had  to  deal  with  cool-headed  En- 
glishmen, not  impulsive  Hibernians.  Though 
his  former  friends  had  not  forgotten  him,  and 
were  very  glad  to  see  him,  still  he  was  no  lon- 
ger "the  rage,"  as  he  once  had  been.  His 
blossoming  season  had  a  little  gone  by.  He 
hung  his  head,  "like  a  lily  drooping,"  before 
those  full-blown  orators  who  now  mounted  the 
rostrum,  and  discoursed  on  the  topics  of  the 
day  with  an  energy  and  a  power  which  carried 
all  before  them,  because  they  had  a  quality 
which  the  brilliant  Irishman  somewhat  lacked 
— earnestness. 

Of  all  places,  London  is  the  one  where  peo- 
ple find  their  level ;  where  only  under  peculiar 
circumstances,  and  never  for  very  long,  is  gild- 
ing mistaken  for.gold.  The  Church  of  England 
was  beginning  to  pass  out  of  that  stage  which 
the  present  generation  may  still  remember — 
when  the  humdrum  sermons  of  the  last  century 
were,  by  a  natural  reaction,  replaced  by  the 
"  flowery"  style  of  preaching ;  now,  in  its  turn, 
also  on  the  decline.  Names,  Irish  and  English 
— which  it  would  be  invidious  here  to  record, 
but  which  were  fondly  familiar  to  the  religious 
world  of  that  date— were  a  little  losing  thdr 
charm,  and  their  owners  their  popularity.  Mere 
"words,  words,  words,"  however  eloquently  ar- 
ranged and  passionately  delivered,  were  felt  not 
to  be  enough.  Something  more  real,  more  sub- 
stantial, was  craved  for  by  the  hungry  seekers 
after  truth — who  hud  brains  to  understand,  as 


well  as  hearts  to  love — ^besides  the  usual  cant 
requirement  of  "souls  to  be  saved." 

For  such  vital  necessities  the  provender  given 
by  Mr.  Scanlan  and  similar  preachers  was  but 
poor  diet.  Vivid  pictures  of  death  and  the 
grave,  painted  with  such  ghastly  accuracy  that 
it  was  no  uncommon  circumstance  for  poor  wo- 
men in  fresh  mourning  weeds  to  be  carried  out 
fainting  into  the  vestry;  glowing  descriptions 
of  heaven,  and  horrible  ones  of  hell,  as  minute 
and  decisive  as  if  the  reverend  gentleman  had 
lately  visited  both  regions,  and  come  back  to 
speak  of  them  from  personal  observation — ser- 
mons of  this  sort  did  not  quite  satisfy  the  church- 
goers of  the  metropolis,  even  in  the  month  of 
May,  and  amidst  all  the  ardors  of  Exeter  Hall. 
No — not  though  backed  by  the  still  handsome 
appearance  and  Irish  fluency — which  so  often 
passed  current  for  eloquence — of  the  curate  of 
Ditchley.  Many  people  asked  who  Mr.  Scan- 
lan was,  and  lamented,  especially  to  his  face, 
that  he  should  be  "thrown  away"  in  such  a 
far-distant  parish ;  but  nobody  offered  him  a 
living,  a  proprietary  chapel,  or  even  a  common 
curacy.  And  he  found  out  that  the  induce- 
ments and  advices  held  out  by  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes  on  the  subject  were  mere  random  talk, 
upon  a  matter  concerning  which  the  artist  knew 
nothing,  "ke  had  urged  Scanlan's  coming  up 
to  London  with  the  careless  good-nature  which 
they  both  possessed  ;  but  now  that  he  was  there 
he  found  his  guest  rather  a  bore,  and,  in  degree, 
turned  the  cold  shoulder  upon  him.  Between 
his  two  sets  of  friends,  artistic  and  religious,  it 
sometimes  happened  that  the  poor  curate  had 
nowhere  to  resort  to,  and  spent  more  than  one 
lonely  evening  in  crowded,  busy  London  ;  which 
caused  him  to  write  home  doleful  letters  to  his 
wife,  saying  how  he  missed  her,  and  how  glad 
he  should  be  to  return  to  her.  These  letters 
filled  her  heart  with  rejoicing. 

And  when  he  did  come  back,  a  little  crest- 
fallen, and  for  the  first  day  or  so  not  talking 
much  about  his  journey,  she  received  him  glad- 
ly and  tenderly.  But  she  rejoiced  nevertheless. 
It  was  one  of  the  sad  things  in  Josephine's  life 
that  her  husband's  discomfiture  was,  necessa- 
rily, oftentimes  to  her  a  source  of  actual  thank- 
fulness. Not  that  she  did  not  feel  for  his  dis- 
appointment, and  grieve  over  it  in  her  heart, 
but  she  was  glad  he  had  found  out  his  mistake. 
Her  conscience  was  never  deluded  by  her  af- 
fections. She  would  as  soon  have  led  her  boy 
Cesar  over  ice  an  eighth  of  an  inch  thick,  as 
have  aided  her  husband  in  any  thing  where  she 
knew  the  attainment  of  his  wish  would  be  to  his 
own  injury. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  came  home — worn  and 
irritable,  fatigued  with  London  excitements, 
which  were  such  a  contrast  to  his  ordinary 
quiet  life,  and  none  the  \etter  for  various  dis- 
sipations to  which  he  had  not  the  power  to  say 
No — Mrs.  Scanlan  was  very  sorry  for  him,  and 
tried  to  make  Wren's  Nest  as  pleasant  as  pod- 
sible  to  him,  supplying  him,  so  far  as  she  could,, 
with  all  his  pet  luxuries,  listening  to  his  endless 


68 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


egotistical  talk  about  the  sensation  he  had  cre- 
ated in  London,  and,  above  all,  accepting  pa- 
tiently a  heap  of  presents,  more  ornamental  than 
useful,  which  she  afterward  discovered  he  had 
purchased  with  money  borrowed  from  Mr.  Sum- 
merhayes,  and  which,  with  other  extraneous  ex- 
penses, caused  this  London  journey  to  amount 
to  much  more  than  the  pearl  brooch  would  cov- 
er. And  Ce'sar  had  already  gone  to  school; 
Louis  too — for  the  brothers  pined  so  at  being 
separated.  At  school  they  must  be  kept,  poor 
boys !  cost  what  it  would. 

Many  a  night  did  their  mother  lie  awake, 
planning  ways  and  means  which  it  was  useless 
to  talk  of  to  her  Edward.  In  fact,  she  had  very 
much  given  up  speaking  of  late :  she  found  it 
did  no  good,  and  only  irritated  her  temper,  and 
confused  her  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  She 
generally  thought  out  things  by  herself,  and 
mentioned  nothing  aloud  until  it  was  fully  ma- 
tured in  her  own  mind.  One  plan,  which  had 
occurred  to  her  several  times  since  the  day  when 
Mr.  Scanlan  satirically  suggested  that  she  should 
apply  for  a  clerk's  situation,  and  she  had  replied 
bitterly,  "I  wish  I  could !"  finally  settled  itself 
into  a  fixed  scheme — that  of  earning  money 
herself,  independent  of  her  husband.  For  that 
more  money  must  be  earned,  somehow  and  by 
somebody,  was  now  quite  plain. 

To  the  last  generation  the  idea  of  women 
working  for  their  daily  bread  was  new,  and 
somewhat  repellent.  First,  because  it  was  a 
much  rarer  necessity  then  than  now.  Society 
was  on  a  simpler  footing.  Women  did  work — in 
a  sense  —  but  it  was  within,  not  without  the 
house :  keeping  fewer  servants,  dressing  less 
extravagantly,  and  lightening  the  load  of  hus- 
bands and  fathers  by  helping  to  save  rather 
than  to  spend.  There  Avere  more  girls  mar- 
ried, because  men  were  not  afraid  to  marry 
them ;  young  fellows  chose  their  wives  as  help- 
mates, instead  of  ornamental  excrescences  or 
appendages — expensive  luxuries  which  should 
be  avoided  as  long  as  possible.  Consequently 
there  were  fewer  families  cast  adrift  on  the 
world — helpless  mothers  and  idle,  thriftless  sis- 
ters thrown  on  the  charity  of  kindred,  who  have 
their  own  household  to  work  for,  and  naturally 
think  it  hard  to  be  burdened  with  more. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  feeling,  begun 
in  chivalrous  tenderness,  though  degenerating 
to  a  mere  superstition,  that  it  is  not  "  respect- 
able" for  a  woman  to  maintain  herself,  was 
much  more  general  than  now.  And  the  pas- 
sionate "I  wish  I  could!"  of  poor  Josephine 
Scanlan  had  been  a  mere  outcry  of  pain,  nei- 
ther caused  by,  nor  resulting  in,  any  definite  pur- 
pose. Gradually,  however,  the  purpose  came, 
and  from  a  mere  nebulous  desire  resolved  itself 
into  a  definite  plan. 

She  saw  clearly  that  if,  during  the  years  that 
might  elapse  before  her  wealth  came — years, 
the  end  of  which  she  dared  not  look  for,  it 
seemed  like  wishing  for  Mr.  Oldham's  death-:- 
the  family  was  to  be  maintained  in  any  com- 
fort, §he  must  work  as  well  as  her  husband. 


At  first  this  was  a  blow  to  her.  It  ran  counter 
to  all  the  prejudices  in  which  she  had  been 
reared  ;  it  smote  her  with  a  nameless  pain. 
What  would  her  father  have  said  ? — the  proud 
old  nobleman,  who  thought  his  nobility  not  dis- 
graced by  becoming  a  teacher  of  languages,  and 
even  of  dancing — any  thing  that  could  earn  for 
him  an  honest  livelihood  ;  who  would  have 
worked  unceasingly  himself,  but  never  have  al- 
lowed his  daughter  to  work.  Poor  as  they 
were,  until  her  marriage  Josephine  had  been 
the  closely  shut  up  and  tenderly  guarded  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Bougainville.  But  Mrs.  Scanlan 
was,  and  long  had  been,  quite  another  person. 
Nobody  guarded  her !  Remembering  her  own 
old  self,  sometimes  she  could  have  laughed, 
sometimes  rather  wept. 

But  of  that,  and  of  a  few  other  sad  facts,  her 
father  had  died  in  happy  ignorance,  and  she  was 
free.     She  must  work — and  she  would  do  it. 

But  how?  There  lay  the  difficulty,  greater 
then  than  even  in  our  day.  A  generation  ago 
no  one  supposed  a  woman  in  the  rank  of  a  lady 
could  do  any  thing  but  teach  children.  Teach- 
ing, therefore,  was  the  first  thing  Mrs.  Scanlan 
thought  of;  but  the  scheme  had  many  objections. 
For  one  reason,  she  wa%  far  from  well-educated,  - 
and,  marrying  at  sixteen,  the  little  education 
she  ever  had  would  have  soon  slipped  away, 
save  for  the  necessity  of  being  her  children's 
instructress.  She  learned  in  order  to  teach ; 
sometimes  keeping  only  a  short  distance  ahead 
of  the  little  flock,  who,  however,  being  fortu- 
nately impressed  with  the  firm  belief  that  mam- 
ma knew  every  thing,  followed  her  implicitly, 
step  by  step,  especially  the  little  girls.  But 
even  the  boys,  fragmentary  as  their  education 
was,  had  been  found  at  school  not  half  so  ig- 
norant as  she  had  expected ;  every  thing  they 
knew  they  knew  thoroughly.  So  the  master 
said,  and  this  comforted  their  mother,  and  em- 
boldened her  to  try  if  she  could  not  find  other 
little  boys  and  girls  about  Ditchley  to  teach 
with  Adrienne,  Gabrielle,  and  Martin.  Very 
little  children,  of  course,  for  she  was  too  honest 
to  take  them  without  telling  their  parents  the 
whole  truth,  that  she  had  never  been  brought 
up  as  a  governess,  and  could  only  teach  them 
as  she  had  taught  her  own. 

Gradually,  in  a  quiet  wp^y,  she  found  out  who 
among  the  rising  generation  of  Ditchley  would 
be  likely  to  come  to  her,  as  the  mistress  of  a 
little  day-school,  to  be  held  in  the  parlor  at 
Wren's  Nest,  or  in  any  other  parlor  that  might 
be  offered  to  her ;  and  then,  all  her  informa- 
tion gained  and  her  plans  laid,  she  prepared 
herself  for  what  she  considered  a  mere  form, 
the  broaching  of  the  subject  to  her  husband. 

To  her  surprise  it  met  with  violent  opposition. 

"  Keep  a  school !  My  wife  keep  a  school !" 
— Edward  Scanlan  was  horrified. 

"Why  should  I  not  keep  a  school?  am  I  not 
clever  enough?"  said  she,  smiling.      "Never- 
theless, I  managed  to  get  some  credit  for  teach- 
ing my  boys,  and  now  that  they  are  away  my       < 
time  is  free,  and  I  should  like  to  use  it;  be- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


69 


sides,"  added  she,  seriously,  "it  will  be  better 
for  us  that  I  should  use  it.  We  want  more 
money. " 

"You  are  growing  perfectly  insane,  I  think, 
on  the  subject  of  money,"  cried  the  curate,  in 
much  irritation.  "If  we  are  running  short, 
why  not  go  again  to  Mr.  Oldham  and  ask  him 
for  more,  as  I  have  so  often  suggested  your  do- 
ing?" 

Ay,  he  had,  till  by  force  of  repetition  he 
had  ceased  to  feel  shame  or  indignation.  But 
the  suggestion  was  never  carried  out,  for  she 
set  herself  against  it  with  a  dull  persistence, 
hard  and  silent  as  a  rock,  and  equally  invinci- 
ble. 

Taking  no  notice  of  her  husband's  last  re- 
mark—  for  where  was  the  good  of  wasting 
words?— she  began  quietly  to  reason  with  him 
about  his  dislike  to  her  setting  up  a  school. 

"  Where  can  be  the  harm  of  it  ?  Why  should 
I  not  help  to  earn  the  family  bread  ?  You  work 
hard,  Edward."  ("  That  I  do,"  he  cried,  eager- 
ly.) "  Why  should  not  I  work  too  ?  It  would 
make  me  happier,  and  there  is  no  disgrace  in  it." 

"  There  is.  What  lady  ever  works  ?  Shop- 
keepers' wives  may  help  their  husbands,  but  in 
our  rank  of  life  the  husband  labors  only ;  the 
wife  sits  at  home  and  enjoys  herself,  as  you 
do." 

"  Do  I  ?",  said  Josephine,  with  a  queer  sort 
of  smile.  But  she  attempted  not  to  retouch 
this  very  imaginative  picture.  Her  husband 
would  never  have  understood  it.  "But  I  do 
not  wish  to  enjoy  myself;  I  had  rather  help  you 
and  the  children.  Nor  can  I  see  any  real  rea- 
son why  I  should  not  do  it. " 

"Possibly  not;  you  have  such  odd  ideas 
sometimes.  If  I  were  a  tradesman  you  could 
carry  them  out ;  stand  behind  the  counter  sell- 
ing a  pound  of  tea  and  a  yard  of  tape,  calcula- 
ting every  half-penny,  and  putting  it  all  by — 
which  I  dare  say  you  would  much  enjoy,  and  be 
quite  in  your  element.  But  my  wife — a  clergy- 
man's wife — could  not  possibly  so  degrade  her- 
self." 

"Why,  Edward,  what  nonsense!  Many  a 
clergyman's  widow  has  turned  schoolmistress." 

"As  my  widow,  you  may;  as  my  wife,  nev- 
er !  I  would  not  endure  it.  To  come  home 
and  find  you  overrun  by  a  troop  of  horrid  brats, 
never  having  a  minute  to  spare  for  me  ;  it  would 
be  intolerable.  Besides,  what  would  Ditchley 
say  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  and — excuse  me,  Edward 
— I  do  not  very  much  care." 

"But  you  ought  to  care.  It  is  most  import- 
ant that  I  keep  up  my  position,  and  that  Ditch- 
ley  should  not  know  my  exact  circumstances. 
Why,  the  other  day,  when  somebody  was  talk- 
ing about  how  well  we  managed  with  our  large 
family,  I  heard  it  said — '  Of  course  Mr.  Scan- 
Ian  must  have,  besides  his  curacy,  a  private  for-r 
tune.' " 

"And  you  let  that  pass?  You  allowed  our 
neighbors  to  believe  it  ?" 

"Why  should  I  not?     It  made  them  think 


all  the  better  of  me.  But,  my  dear,  I  fear  I 
never  shall  get  you  to  understand  the  necessity 
of  keeping  up  appearances." 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Josephine,  slow- 
ly. "Perhaps  we  had  better  quit  the  subject. 
Once  again,  Edward,  will  you  give  me  your 
consent,  the  only  thing  I  need,  and  without 
which  I  can  not  carry  out  my  plans?  They 
are  so  very  simple,  so  harmless,  so  entirely  for 
your  own  benefit  and  that  of  the  family." 

And  in  her  desperation  she  did  what  of  late 
she  had  rather  given  up  doing :  she  began  to 
reason  and  even  to  plead  with  her  husband. 
But  once  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  she 
found  herself  at  fault  concerning  him.  She 
had  not  calculated  on  the  excessive  obstinacy 
Avhich  often  coexists  with  weakness.  A  strong 
man  can  afford  to  change  his  mind,  to  see  the 
force  of  arguments  and  yield  to  them,  but  a 
weak  person  is  afraid  to  give  in.  "I've  said 
it,  and  I'll  stick  to  it,"  is  his  only  castle  of  de- 
fense, in  which  he  intrenches  himself  against 
all  assaults ;  unless  indeed  his  opponent  is  cun- 
ning enough  to  take  and  lead  him  by  the  nose 
with  the  invisible  halter  of  his  own  vanity  and 
selfishness.  But  such  a  course  this  woman — 
all  honest-minded  women — would  have  scorned. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  found  her  husband,  in  his  own 
mild  and  good-natured  way,  quite  impractica- 
ble. He  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  it  was 
not  "  genteel"  for  a  woman  to  work,  especially 
a  married  woman  ;  so,  work  his  wife  should  not, 
whatever  happened. 

"  Not  in  any  way,  visible  or  invisible  ?"  said 
she,  with  a  slight  touch  of  satire  in  her  tone. 
"And  is  this  charming  idleness  to  be  for  my 
own  sake  or  yours  ?" 

"For  both,  my  dear;  I  am  sure  I  am  right. 
Think  how  odd  it  would  look,  Mrs.  Scanlan 
keeping  a  school !  If  you  had  proposed  to  earn 
money  in  some  quiet  way,  which  our  neighbors 
would  never  find  out — " 

"You  would  not  have  objected  to  that?" 
said  Josephine,  eagerly. 

"  Very  likely  I  might ;  but  still  not  so  much. 
However,  I  am  quite  tired  of  discussing  this 
matter.  For  once,  Josephine,  you  must  give 
in.  As  I  have  so  often  to  remind  you,  the  hus- 
band is  the  head  of  the  wife,  and  when  I  do 
choose  to  assert  my  authority —  However,  we 
will  not  enter  upon  that  question.  Just  leave 
me  to  earn  the  money,  and  you  stay  quietly  at 
home  and  enjoy  yourself,  like  other  wives,  and 
be  very  thankful  that  you  have  a  husband  to 
provide  for  you.  Depend  upon  it  this  is  the 
ordinance  of  Scripture,  which  says  that  mar- 
riage is  a  great  mystery." 

"Yes,"  muttered  Josephine,  turning  away 
with  that  flash  of  the  eye  that  showed  she  was 
not  exactly  a  tame  creature  to  be  led  or  driven, 
but  a  wild  creature,  tied  and  bound,  that  felt 
keenly,  perhaps  dangerously,  the  careless  hand 
dragging  at  her  chain. 

Most  truly,  marriage  was  a  mystery — to  her. 
Why  had  Heaven  mocked  her  with  the  sham 
of  a  husband  ?  ordered  her  to  obey  him,  who  was 


70 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


MAEKIAGE  IS  A  GBEAT  MY8TEBY. 


too  weak  to  rule  ?  to  honor  him,  whom,  had  he 
been  a  stranger,  she  would  in  many  things  have 
actually  despised  ?  to  love  him  ? — ah  !  there 
was  the  sharpest  torture  of  her  bonds.  She  had 
loved  him  once,  and  in  a  sort  of  way  she  loved 
him  still.  That  wonderful,  piteous  habit  of 
loving — the  affection  which  lingers  long  after 
all  passion  has  died,  and  respect  been  worn  out 
— which  one  sees  in  the  beggared  peeress  who 
will  not  accept  the  remedy  the  law  gives  her, 
and  part  forever  from  her  faithless,  spendthrift, 
brutal  lord :  in  the  coster-monger's  wife,  who 
comes  bleeding  and  maimed  to  the  police-office, 
yet  will  not  swear  the  peace  against  the  savage 
she  calls  husband — nay,  will  rather  perjure  her- 
self than  have  him  punished — God  knows  there 
must  be  something  divine  in  this  feeling  which 
He  has  implanted  in  women's  breasts,  and 
which  they  never  fully  understand  until  they 
are  married. 

I  did  not;  and  I  have  often  marveled  at, 
sometimes  even  blamed,  this  Josephine  Scanlan, 
whose  little  finger  was  worth  more  than  her 
husband's  whole  body,  that  to  the  end  of  his 
days,  and  her  days,  she  cherished  a  strange 
tenderness  for  the  man  to  whom  she  had  been 
bound  by  the  closest  tie  that  human  nature  can 
know. 

Some  chance  interrupted  their  conversation 
at  this  critical  point,  and  before  she  could  get 
an  opportunity  of  reviving  it — for  Mr.  Scanlan 
shirked  the  subject  in  every  possible  way — she 
thought  over  the  question,  and  arranged  it  in 
her  own  mind  in  a  different  form. 


To  go  directly  counter  to  her  husband  was 
impossible,  and  to  yield  to  him  equally  so. 
That  charming  picture  of  domestic  life  with 
which  he  deluded  himself  would  result  in  leav- 
ing their  children  without  bread.  Certainly  the 
father  earned  money,  but  he  spent  it  as  fast  as 
he  earned  it,  in  that  easy,  Irish  fashion  he  had, 
which  his  poor  old  mother  knew  so  well !  As 
to  how  it  was  spent  nobody  quite  knew;  but 
nobody  seemed  any  the  better  for  it.  That 
creed,  fortunately  not  a  true  one,  which  I  once 
heard  nobly  enunciated  by  a  stout  father  of  a 
family,  "  that  a  married  man  must  always  sac- 
rifice himself  to  either  wife  or  children,"  did 
not  number  among  its  votaries  the  Rev.  Edward 
Scanlan. 

His  wife  must  earn  money;  she^knew  that, 
but  she  thought  she  would  take  him  at  his 
word,  and  try  to  do  it,  as  he  said — "in  some 
quiet  way."  And  suddenly  a  way  suggested 
itself,  after  the  curious  fashion  in  which  the 
bread  we  cast  upon  the  waters  is  taken  up 
again  after  many  days. 

The  woman  who  had  been  nurse  to  unhappy 
Mr.  Waters,  overwhelmed  by  the  fatal  termina- 
tion of  her  duties  in  this  case,  gave  up  her  vo- 
cation as  attendant  on  the  insane ;  and,  being 
a  clever  and  sensible  person,  started  a  little 
shop  for  ladies'  and  children's  clothes,  lace 
cleaning  and  mending,  and  other  things  for 
which  the  wealthy  families  hereabout  had 
hitherto  required  to  send  to  London.  She 
prospered  well — not  unhelped  by  advice  from 
her  good  friend  Mrs.  Scanlan,  whose  exquisite 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


71 


French  taste,  and  French  skill  in  lace  and  era- 
broidery  work,  had  never  quite  deserted  her. 
In  her  need,  Josephine  thought  whether  she 
could  not  do  for  money  what  she  used  to  do 
for  pleasure.  Priscilla  Nunn  always  wanted 
"hands,"  which  were  most  difficult  to  find. 
Why  should  not  the  curate's  wife  offer  her- 
self as  "first  hand,"  doing  the  work  at  her 
»  own  home,  and  if  possible  "  under  the  rose" 
— that  flower  which  must  have  been  chosen  as 
the  emblem  of  secrecy  because  it  has  so  many 
thorns  ? 

So  had  Mrs.  Scanlan's  scheme:  but  once 
again,  as  in  that  well-remembered  mission  to 
the  Rectory,  she  took  her  courage  dans  ses  deux 
mains,  as  her  father  would  have  said,  and  went 
to  speak  to^Priscilla. 

It  was  not  so  very  hard  after  all.  She  was 
asking  no  favor ;  she  knew  she  could  give  fair 
work  for  honest  pay,  and  she  did  not  feel  de- 
graded ;  not  half  so  degraded  as  when — owing 
money  to  six  shops  in  High  Street — she  had 
walked  down  Mr.  Oldham's  garden  on  that 
summer  day  which  now  seemed  half  a  lifetime 
ago. 

Priscilla  was,  of  course,  much  astonished, 
but  the  quickness  and  delicacy  of  perception 
essential  to  one  who  had  followed  her  mel- 
ancholy m€tier  for  so  many  years,  prevented 
her  betraying  this  to  the  lady  who  wanted  to 
work  like  a  shop  girl.  She  readily  accepted 
the  offer,  and  promised  not  to  make  the  facts 
public  if  Mrs.  Scanlan  wished  them  concealed. 

"  You  kept  my  secret  once,  ma'am,"  she  said, 
'*  and  I'll  keep  yours  now.  Not  a  soul  in  Ditch- 
ley  shall  find  it  out.  I'll  tell  all  my  ladies  I  send 
my  v/ork  to  be  done  in  London." 

"  Don't  do  that,  pray !  Never  tell  a  false- 
hood on  my  account,  it  would  make  me  miser- 
able. And  besides,  for  myself  I  don't  care  who 
knows ;  only  my  husband. " 

"I  see,  ma'am.  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  no 
stories ;  only  just  keep  the  matter  to  myself, 
which  I  can  easily  do.  I  am  accustomed  to 
hold  my  tongue ;  and,  besides,  I've  nobo.dy  to 
speak  to.  Thank  goodness!"  she  added,  with 
a  shrewd  acerbity,  that  half  amazed,  half  pained 
Mrs.  Scanlan — "Thank  goodness,  ma'am,  I've 
got  no  husband." 

So  the  matter  was  decided,  and  the  curate's 
wife  took  home  with  her  a  packet  of  valuable 
lace,  which  occupied  her  for  many  weeks,  and 
brought  her  in  quite  a  handful  of  money.  Often 
it  amused  her  extremely  to  see  her  handiwork 
upon  her  various  neighbors,  and  to  hear  it  ad- 
mired, and  herself  congratulated  as  being  the 
means  of  inducing  Priscilla  Nunn  to  settle  at 
Ditchley — such  an  advantage  to  the  ladies  of 
the  neighborhood. 

Her  faithful  Bridget,  and  her  fond  little 
daughter  Adrienne,  of  course,  soon  found  out 
her  innocent  mystery ;  but  it  was  a  good  while 
before  her  husband  guessed  it.  He  was  so  ac- 
customed to  see  her  always  at  work  that  he 
never  thought  of  asking  questions.  When  at 
last  he  did,  and  she  told  him  what  she  was  do- 


ing, and  why,  he  was  a  little  vexed  at  first; 
but  he  soon  got  over  it. 

"A  very  lady-like  employment,"  said  he, 
touching  the  delicate  fabric  over  which  her 
eyes  were  straining  themselves  many  hours  a 
day.  "And  it  keeps  you  a  good  deal  within 
doors,  which  is  much  more  proper  than  trailing 
every  where  with  the  children,  as  you  used  to 
do.  And  you  are  certain  nobody  has  the  slight- 
est idea  of  your  earning  money  ?" 

"Quite  certain." 

"  Well,  then,  do  as  you  like,  my  dear.  You 
are  a  very  clever  woman,  the  cleverest  woman 
I  ever  knew,  and  the  most  fitted  to  be  my 
wife." 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  was  he  most  fitted 
to  be  her  husband?  He  took  this  side  of  the 
question  with  a  satisfied  complaisance  beauti- 
ful to  behold. 

But  to  her  it  mattered  little.  She  did  not 
weigh  minutely  the  balance  of  things.  She 
was  doing  her  duty  both  to  him  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  that  was  enough  for  her.  Especially 
when,  after  a  time,  she  found  her  prevision 
more  needful  than  she  had  expected ;  since 
there  would  ere  long  be  seven  little  mouths  to 
feed  instead  of  six.  She  was  not  exactly  a 
young  woman  now,  and  the  cry,  "My  strength 
faileth  me!"  was  often  on  her  lips.  Never 
audibly,  however;  or  nobody  heard  it  but 
Bridget.  But  still  ever  and  anon  came  the 
terror  which  had  once  before  beset  her — of  dy- 
ing, and  leaving  her  children  to  the  sole  charge 
of  their  father.  And  the  restlessness  which 
ever  since  his  journey  to  London  had  come 
upon  Edward  Scanlan  at  times,  the  murmurs 
that  he  was  "not  appreciated  at  Ditchley," 
that  he  was  "wasting  his  life,"  "rusting  his 
talents,"  and  so  on,  tried  her  more  than  any 
sufferings  of  her  own. 

Another  sketch  which  just  at  this  time  Mr. 
Summerhayes  took  of  her — Mr.  Summerhayes, 
who  still  found  it  convenient  and  agreeable  to 
come  to  Ditchley  every  summer,  making  his 
head-quarters  within  a  walk  of  Wren's  Nest, 
the  hospitable  doors  of  which  were  never  shut 
against  him  by  his  good  friend  the  curate,  who 
would  forgive  any  shortcomings  for  the  sake  of 
enjoying  "intellectual"  society — this  portrait 
has,  stronger  than  ever,  the  anxious  look 
which,  idealized,  only  added  to  the  charm  of 
Josephine's  beauty,  but  in  real  life  must  have 
been  rather  painful  to  behold.  She  sat  for  it, 
I  believe,  under  the  impression  that  it  might 
possibly  be  the  last  remembrance  of  her  left  to 
her  children — but  Providence  willed  otherwise. 
She  labored  as  long  and  as  hard  as  she 
could  to  provide  for  the  reception  of  this  youn- 
gest child,  welcome  still,  though,  as  Mr.  Scan- 
lan once  said,  "  rather  inconvenient ;"  and  then, 
quite  suddenly,  her  trial  came  upon  her :  she 
laid  herself  down,  uncertain  whether  she  should 
ever  rise  up  more.  When  she  did,  it  was 
alone.  That  corner  of  Ditchley  church-yard 
which  she  called  her  grave — for  two  of  her  in- 
fants lay  there — had  to  be  opened  in  the  moon- 


72 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


light  to  receive  a  third  tiny  coffin,  buried  at 
night,  without  any  funeral  rites,  as  unchristen- 
ed  babies  are — babies  that  have  only  breathed 
for  a  minute  this  world's  sharp  air,  and  whom 
nobody  thinks  much  of,  except  their  mothers, 
who  often  grieve  over  them  as  if  they  had  been 
living  children. 

But  this  mother,  strange  to  say,  did  not 
grieve.  When  Bridget  told  her  all  about  the 
poor  little  thing — for  she  had  been  unconscious 
at  the  time  of  its  birth,  and  her  head  "  wan- 
dered" for  several  days  afterward,  in  conse- 
quence, her  servant  angrily  believed,  of  some 
"  botherations"  of  Mr.  Scanlan's  which  he  talk- 
ed to  his  wife  about,  when  any  husband  of 
common-sense  would  have  held  his  tongue — 
Josephine  looked  in  Bridget's  face  with  a 
strange,  wistful  smile. 

"  Don't  cry,  don't  cry ;  it  is  better  as  it  is. 
My  poor  little  girl !  It  was  a  girl  ?  And  she 
was  very  like  me,  you  say?  Did  her  father 
see  her  at  all  ?"  '         • 

"  Can't  tell,"  replied  Bridget,  abruptly. 

"  Never  mind ;  we'll  not  fret.  My  little 
lamb !  she  is  safer  away.  There  is  one  woman 
less  in  the  world  to  suffer.  I  am  content  she 
died." 

And  when  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  seen  again  in 
her  customary  household  place,  and  going 
about  her  usual  duties,  there  was  indeed  a 
solemn  content,'  even  thankfulness  in  her  face. 
She  never  had  another  child. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

During  the  sad  domestic  interregnum,  when 
she  had  the  law  entirely  in  her  own  hands, 
Bridget  Halloran,  with  her  usual  acuteness, 
stimulated  by  her  passionate  fidelity,  did  not 
fail  to  discover  the  whole  length  and  breadth 
of  the  "  botheration"  which,  she  firmly  believed, 
had  been  the  cause  of  the  all  but  fatal  termina- 
tion of  her  dear  mistress's  illness.  And  the 
root  of  it  was  that  root  of  all  bitterness  in 
Wren's  Nest — Mr.  Sumraerhayes. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  disapproved  of  him  in  a  pas- 
sive, though  reticent  and  unobnoxious  way,  but 
Bridget  cordially  hated  Mr.  Summerhayes. 
Perhaps  he  had  betrayed  himself  more  care- 
lessly to  the  servant  than  he  did  before  the 
lady,  unto  whom  he  was  always  exceedingly 
courteous ;  perhaps,  human  nature  being  weak, 
Bridget  had  taken  umbrage  at  things  the  chil- 
dren let  out  concerning  his  ridicule  of  her  ug- 
liness and  her  rough  odd  ways ;  or,  more  like- 
ly, he  had  rivaled  her  a  while  in  the  affections 
of  that  little  flock,  who  were  the  idols  of  her 
fond  and  jealous  heart.  At  any  rate,  there^  was 
secretly  war  to  the  knife  between  the  servant 
and  her  master's  friend,  whom  Bridget  be- 
lieved, and  not  without  reason,  to  be  any  thing 
but  the  friend  of  hei*  mistress  and  the  family. 
Possibly,  though  she  never  said  it,  the  mistress 
thought  the  same. 

It  may  be  urged  that  a  true  and  loving  wife 


has  no  cause  to  dread  any  other  influence — 
certainly  not  any  male  influence  —  over  hei- 
husband :  none  can  possibly  be  so  strong  as 
her  own.  But  this  must  depend  greatly  upon 
what  sort  of  man  the  husband  may  be.  If  he 
is  a  mere  weather-cock,  blown  about  by  every 
wind,  she  has  much  reason  to  be  careful  from 
which  quarter  the  wind  blows.  The  influence 
which  Summerhayes  gained  over  Mr.  Scanlan 
was  exactly  that  which  a  strong  bad  man  can 
always  exercise  over  an  amiable  weak  one — 
taking  him  on  his  weakest  side,  and  leading 
him  by  means  of  his  tastes,  his  follies,  or  his 
prejudices.  This  was  apparent  even  to  the  in- 
experienced eyes  of  Bridget  Halloran.  She — 
good,  ignorant  woman! — had  never  seen  that 
wonderful  engraving  of  Satan  playing  with  the 
young  man  for  his  soul,  or  she  would  have  lik- 
ened her  master  to  one  of  the  players,  and  his 
friend  to  the  other ;  while  in  the  sorrowful  an- 
gel \^ho  stands  behind,  striving  to  the  last  for 
the  possession  of  that  poor  fool  who  is.  perhaps 
hardly  worth  striving  for,  she  would  at  once 
have  seen  another  likeness,  another  good  angel, 
such  a  one  as  few  men  have,  or  similar  strug- 
gles might  not  end  as  they  so  often  do — in  blank 
defeat. 

The  contest  must  have  been  sore  on  the  day 
before  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  taken  ill.  It  seemed 
Mr.  Summerhayes  had  "got  into  difficulties" 
— to  use  the  mild  term  in  which  society  puts 
such  things;  in  fact,  he  was  flying  from  his 
creditors-,  who  had  at  last  risen  up  indignant 
against  the  fascinating  gentleman  who  for  years 
had  played  a  deep  game  of  deception  with  them 
all.  There  are  some  people  who,  more  than 
even  being  wronged,  abhor  being  made  a  fool 
of,  and  two  or  three  of  these  pursued  relent- 
lessly the  man  of  fashion  who,  after  cheating 
them  in  every  possible  way,  had  tried  to  free 
himself  from  them  by  calling  his  art  a  trade, 
and  by  some  legal  chicanery  making  himself  a 
bankrupt  instead  of  an  insolvent.  He  had 
been  some  days  in  hiding,  and  then,  driven  to 
the  last  extremity,  implored  to  be  hidden  at' 
Wren'^Nest. 

This  Mrs.  Scanlan  steadfastly  withstood. 
Perhaps  she  might  have  sheltered  a  noble  trai- 
tor, but  a  "  thief — as  she  very  plainly  put  it — 
had  no  interest  in  her  eyes.  She  was  deaf  to 
all  her  husband's  arguments,  entreaties,  threats ; 
she  declared  positively  the  swindler  should  not 
enter  her  doors ;  but  the  resistance  nearly  cost 
her  her  life. 

These  facts  Bridget  ingeniously  discovered, 
and  the  consequence  was  that  one  day,  when, 
taking  advantage  of  the  forlorn  state  of  the 
garrison,  Mr.  Summerhayes  appeared,  he  had 
the  door  shut  in  his  face,  and  was  summarily 
taken  possession  of  by  the  enemy — a  wolf  in 
sheep's  clothing  who  had  tracked  him  safely  to 
Ditchley.  The  law  caught  hold  of  him,  and 
consigned  him  to  the  jail  which,  in  Bridget's 
opinion,  he  richly  deserved.  Possibly,  had  he 
been  an  Irishman  and  her  friend,  she  might  have 
thought  differently,  and  have  resisted  rather 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


73 


ADBIENNE. 


than  abetted  "the  powers  that  be" — for  poor 
Bridget's  heart  always  had  clearer  vision  than 
her  head  ;  but  being  what  he  was,  and  she  what 
she  was,  he  found  with  her  no  mercy,  only  stem 
justice.  Bridget  triumphed  over  her  victim 
like  Jael  over  Sisera,  with  a  righteous  triumph, 
which  she  did  not  fail  to  betray  to  the  only  one 
to  whom  she  could  betray  it — poor  little  Miss 
Adrienne,  who  listened  and  wept!  For  the 
child  was  growing  up  into  a  maiden  of  four- 
teen, and  the  only  hero  in  her  life  had  been 
this  young  man,  so  clever,  so  handsome,  viewed 
with  reverence  as  well  as  admiration,  being  so 
many  years  older  than  herself  Hapless  Adri- 
enne !  already  she  could  not  bear  to  have  a  word 
said  to  the  disparagement  of  Mr.  Summerhayes. 

Bridget  shut  the  door  upon  him ;  and  her 
master,  when  he  found  it  out,  was  furious. 
Even  her  mistress  thought  the  thing  might 
have  been  done  more  gently,  and  was  rather 
glad  when,  by  some  loophole  of  justice,  the 
artist  crept  out  of  his  durance  vile  and  escaped 
abroad,  where  by  nothing  worse  than  letters 
could  he  attack  her  husband.  And  when,  grad- 
ually, on  her  complaining  a  little  of  them,  and 
their  constant  hints  for  assistance,  the  letters 
ceased,  her  spirits  revived.  She  thought  if  this 
baleful  influence  were  once  removed  from  Ed- 
ward Scanlan's  life  her  own  life  might  become 
brighter.  For  she  loved  brightness,  this  sorely- 
tried  woman.  She  never  lingered  a  moment 
longer  than  she  could  help  under  the  fringe  of 
the  cloud. 

One  small  shadow,  however,  that  cloud  left 


behind  for  long.  Mr.  Scanlan's  dislike  to 
Bridget  increased  every  day.  Her  ugliness 
and  roughness  had  always  been  an  annoyance 
to  him  i  but  the  worst  thing  was  that  she,  with 
her  sharp  eyes,  had  long  ago  seen  through  "  the 
masther,"and  no  man  likes  to  be  seen  through, 
especially  by  his  servants. 

Besides,  Bridget's  passionate  devotion  to 
"  the  misthress"  caused  her  to  make  perpetual 
and  not  always  silent  protest  against  things 
which  Mrs.  'Scanlan  herself  bore  with  perfect 
equanimity,  for  long  habit  scarcely  even  no- 
tices them — small  daily  sacrifices ;  which  an 
unselfish  nature  is  perpetually  off*ering  to  a  self- 
ish one,  and  a  woman  to  a  man — whether  for 
his  good  is  not  always  clear.  And  Bridget, 
being  an  inveterate  man-hater,  resented  this. 

Unquestionably,  Bridget  could  not  have  been 
always  a  pleasant  person  to  have  in  the  house. 
She  was  a  special  bugbear  to  Edward  Scanlan, 
with  whom  her  warm  Irish  heart  counted  as 
nothing  against  her  sharp  Irish  tongue,  edged 
with  shrewd  mother-wit,  and  weighted  by  the 
sterling  honesty  which  detects  at  once  any  thing 
like  a  sham.  He  not  merely  disliked  her,  he 
actually  dreaded  her,  and  tried  every  means, 
not  9pen,  but  underhand,  to  get  rid  of  her. 
They  all  failed,  however.  When  she  left  Ire- 
land Bridget  had  declared  she  would  live  and 
die  with  her  dear  mistress,  and  she  kept  her 
word.  She  stuck  like  a  bur  to  the  struggling 
household  at  Wren's  Nest,  blind  to  all  hints, 
deaf  to  all  scoldings — totally  indifferent  on  the 
subject  of  wages,  or  of  *' bettering  herself,"  as 


74 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


her  master  sometimes  urged.  She  would  not 
go ;  and  both  she  and  her  mistress  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  she  could  not  go.  For  what 
new  servant  would  have  been  content  with 
Bridget's  wages  —  have  lived  upon  Bridget's 
scanty  fare — have  put  up  with  every  sort  of  in- 
convenience, and  still  gone  working  on  "like  a 
horse,"  as  Bridget  did  ?  Above  all,  who  would 
have  loved  them — one  and  all — as  Bridget  loved 
them? 

And  in  this  story,  where  I  am  conscious  of 
shooting  many  a  sharp  arrow  against  the  Irish 
nation — casting  dust — ah,  well! — on  the  graves 
of  my  children's  forefathers  —  let  me  confess 
with  tears  over  another  grave,  where  I  myself 
lately  laid  Bridget  Halloran's  dear  old  head, 
that  I  believe  she  is  not  an  untrue  type  of  many 
Irishwomen — women  carrying  under  their  light, 
lively  manners  hearts  as  true  as  steel,  and  as 
pure  and  fresh  as  their  own  green  meadows  and 
blue  skies — cheerful  themselves  and  cheering 
others  to  the  last  limit  of  a  blessed  old  age.  I 
have  known  such ;  and  I  wish — oh !  my  sin- 
cere, formal,  dear,  gentle  Englishw9men ;  my 
brave,  true,  narrow-minded,  large-hearted 
Scotchwomen — I  wish  I  knew  a  few  more ! 

The  whole  course  of  Bridget's  relations  with 
the  family  of  which  she  considered  herself  a 
member  were  a  queer  mixture  of  tragedy  and 
comedy,  which  climaxed  to  a  point  when  there 
appeared  unexpectedly  a  quite  legitimate  mode 
of  getting  rid  of  her.  The  Rectory  gardener — 
an  elderly  widower,  with  a  large  family — who 
had  long  noted  Bridget's  good  qualities,  bal- 
anced them  against  her  defects ;  and  having 
very  deaf  ears  and  no  eye  for  beauty,  considered 
that  she  would  make  him  a  capital  wife.  Ac- 
cordingly he  asked  her  formally  in  marriage, 
and  of  Mr.  Scanlan,  who,  with  great  amaze- 
ment and  ill-concealed  satisfaction,  forwarded 
the  old  fellow's  suit  by  every  means  in  his 
power. 

But  Bridget  refused  to  smile  upon  her  an- 
cient lovei' — not  that  his  antiquity  was  against 
him :  she  said,  "  Old  men  were  much  better 
than  young  ones ;  she'd  rather  marry  the  rec- 
tor than  any  curate  in  the  neighborhood,  if  she 
was  a  lady.  But,"  she  added,  severely,  "not 
a  man  in  the  world  was  to  be  depended  on; 
she'd  seen  too  much  of  matrimony  to  wish  to 
try  it  herself."  Which  remark,  being  repeated 
to  him  unconsciously  by  one  of  his  "  little  pitch- 
ers," who  have  always  such  proverbially  "long 
ears,"  did  not  greatly  gratify  Mr.  Scanlan. 

I  fear  he  may  be  considered,  after  all,  an  ill- 
nsed  man,  playing  a  rather  subordinate  part  in 
his  own  household.  But  people  get  what  they 
can ;  and  there  is  one  thing  which  no  sham  rev- 
erence will  impart  to  its  object — dignity.  It  is 
no  easy  thing  to  set  up  as  the  household  deity 
an  idol,  not  of  gold  but  clay,  from  whom  the 
gilding  is  perpetually  rubbing  off,  and  the  baser 
material  appearing  in  the  eyes  even  of  children 
and  servants ;  so  that  nothing  but  the  assertion 
of  an  absolute  falsehood  can  maintain  the  head 
of  the  family  as  a  "head"  at  all.     Oh  how 


thankful  ought  those  families  to  be  who  really 
have  a  head  to  worship — with  the  leal  devotion 
which  is  his  rightful  due — who,  as  husband,  fa- 
ther, and  master,  righteously  fulfills  his  duties, 
and  is  in  truth  God's  vicegerent  upon  earth  unto 
those  who  with  all  their  hearts  love,  honor,  and 
obey  him !  Knowing  what  such  loyalty  is,  it  is 
with  tears  rather  than  wrath  or  ridicule  that  I 
draw  this  inevitable  picture  of  Edward  Scanlan. 

He  was  a  very  unfortunate  man,  and  thought 
himself  so,  though  for  other  causes  than  the 
true  ones.  He  counted  as  nothing  his  bright, 
clever,  handsome  wife,  his  healthy  children,  his 
settled  income,  but  was  always  wearying  for  some 
blessing  he  had  not  got — to  be  a  popular  preach- 
er, a  great  author,  a  man  of  wealth  and  fashion. 
He  envied  his  rich  neighbors  every  luxury  they 
had,  and  would  have  aped  their  splendor  con- 
stantly with  his  own  pinchbeck  imitations  of 
the  same  had  not  his  wife  withstood  him  stead- 
ily. She  tried  all  possible  arguments  to  make 
him  live  simply,  modestly ;  resting  upon  his 
sure  dignity  as  a  minister  of  God,  who  has  no 
need^  to  pay  court  to  any  man ;  whose  mere 
presence  is  an  honor,  and  who  may  receive  the 
best  society  without  deviating  in  the  least  from 
his  own  natural  household  ways. 

For  instance,  that  small  snobbishness  of  a 
poor  man  asking  rich  men  to  dinner,  and  giv- 
ing them  dinners  like  their  own,  seemed  con- 
temptible to  the  "blue  blood"  of  Josephine 
Scanlan.  When  Lady  Emma  Lascelles  came 
to  the  Rectory,  and  walked  over,  as  she  always 
did,  to  the  children's  tea  at  Wren's  Nest,  Mrs, 
Scanlan  gave  her  a  cordial  welcome,  the  best 
she  had  of  food  and  drink,  and  nothing  more. 
But  Mr.  Scanlan  would  have  feasted  her  on 
silver  and  gold,  and  let  the  family  fast  for  a 
week  to  come. 

Small  differences  such  as  these — springing 
from  the  fact  that  the  husband  has  one  stand- 
ard of  right  and  the  wife  another,  and  that 
they  look  at  things  from  totally  opposite  points 
of  view — caused  the  wheels  of  life  to  move  not 
always  smoothly  in  the  Scanlan  household. 
How  can  two  walk  together  unless  they  be 
agreed?  especially  when  they  have  children, 
and  every  year  the  young  eyes  grow  sharper, 
and  the  little  minds  wider  and  clearer.  Alas ! 
often,  when  the  wife's  agony  has  grown  dulled 
by  time,  the  mother's  but  begins.  Many  a  day, 
had  she  been  alone,  Mrs.  Scanlan,  in  very  wea- 
riness of  warfare,  would  have  laid  down  her 
arms,  indifferent  not  merely  to  prudence  and 
imprudence,  but  almost  to  right  and  wrong. 
Now  she  dared  not  do  it,  for  the  sake  of  her 
children.  To  bring  them  up  honestly,  simply, 
in  the  fear  of  God  and  total  fearlessness  of  man, 
was  her  one  aim  and  one  desire ;  and  to  do 
this  she  again  and  again  buckled  on  her  armor 
for  this  pitiable  domestic  skirmishing,  this  guer- 
rilla warfare  ;  having  to  fight  inch  by  inch  of  her 
way,  not  in  an  open  country,  but  behind  bushes 
and  rocks.  For,  as  I  before  said,  Edward  Scan- 
lan was  at  heart  a  coward,  and  his  wife  was  not. 
In  most  contests  between  them  he  ended  by  pre- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


75 


cipitately  quitting  the  ground ;  leaving  his  mel- 
ancholy victress  to  gaze,  more  humiliated  than 
victorious,  round  upon  her  desolate  battle-field. 

She  did  this  the  day  after  Bridget  had  given 
the  final  cong€  to  her  lover,  and  declared  her 
determination  not  to  be  "  druv  out  o'  the 
house,"  but  remain  a  fixture  there  as  long  as 
she  lived ;  which  Mrs.  Scanlan  honestly  said 
she  thought  was  the  best  thing  possible  for  the 
family.  So  Mr.  Scanlan  had  to  yield ;  but  the 
domestic  atmosphere  was  not  sunny  for  a  week 
or  more  ;  the  mistress  had  a  sad  worn  face,  and 
the  master  allowed  himself  to  be  irritable  over 
trifles  in  a  way  patent  even  to  chance  visitors 
— to  the  rector,  for  instance. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Scanlan,"  said  he,  one 
afternoon,  when  he  had  spent  an  hour  or  two, 
after  his  wont,  with  the  family;  "you  are  a 
good  fellow,  and  a  very  amusing  fellow,  but  you 
ought  to  have  been  a  bachelor." 

"  I  wish  I  had.  It  would  have  saved  me  a 
world  of  trouble,"  replied  the  curate,  laughing. 
But  he  seemed  a  little  vexed  for  all  that.  He 
liked  always  to  appear  the  amiable  paterfamil- 
ias. It  looked  so  very  much  better  in  a  clergy- 
man. And  many  a  time,  when  visitors  were  by, 
he  would  put  his  arm  round  his  girls'  waists  and 
pat  his  boys  on  the  shoulder — caresses  which 
these  young  people  received  at  first  with  awe 
and  pleasure,  then  with  hesitation,  at4ast  with  a 
curious  sort  of  smile.  Little  folks  are  so  sharp ! 
sharper  than  big  folks  have  any  idea  of. 

I  will  not  say  these  children  did  not  love 
their  father,  for  he  was  good-natured  to  them  ; 
and  they  clung  to  him  with  the  instinct  of  life- 
long habit ;  but  they  did  not  respect  him,  they 
did  not  rely  upon  him.  "  Oh,  papa  says  so," 
which  meant  that  secondary  evidence  was  nec- 
essary; or,  "Papa  intends  it,"  which  implied 
that  the  thing  would  never  be  done — grew  to  be 
familiar  phrases  in  the  household.  The  mother 
had  simply  to  shut  her  ears  to  them ;  for  to  ex- 
l)lain  them,  to  argue  against  them,  above  all, 
to  reprove  them,  was  impossible. 

And  thus  time  went  on,  and  it  was  years  since 
the  day  she  had  heard  Mr.  Oldham's  intentions 
with  regard  to  her;  which  at  first  seemed  to 
make  such  a  momentous  difference  in  her  life, 
but  at  last  sunk  into  a  mere  visionary  fancy, 
scarcely  believed  in  at  all. 

Besides,  sad  to  say,  but  not  wonderful,  the 
secret  which  she  thought  would  have  been  a 
permanent  bond  of  union  between  herself  and 
her  good  old  friend  turned  out  quite  the  con- 
trary ;  rather  a  bar  of  separation  between  them. 
Her  sensitive  pride  took  alarm  lest,  silent  as  she 
was  by  his  command,  any  filial  attentions  she 
might  show  to  him  might  be  misinterpreted ; 
supposed  by  him  to  be  meant  to  remind  him  of 
his  promise.  For  the  same  reason  all  her  dif- 
ficulties and  anxieties,  yearly  accumulating,  she 
hid  from  him  with  the  utmost  care  ;  complain- 
ings might  have  been  construed  into  an  entreaty 
for  help,  or  for  some  change  in  the  difficult  and 
anomalous  position  in  which  he  had  placed  her 
and  allowed  her  to  remain. 


It  was  indeed  most  difficult ;  especially  with 
regard  to  the  children,  of  whom,  as  he  grew  fee- 
bler, Mr.  Oldham's  notice  gradually  lessened. 
They  obviously  wearied  him,  as  the  young  do 
weary  the  old.  And  their  mother  could  not 
bear  to  intrude  them  upon  him ;  would  scarce- 
ly ever  send  them  to  the  Rectory,  where  they 
used  to  be  such  constant  guests,  lest,  as  he 
once  said,  they  might  "remind  him  of  his 
death,"  and  of  their  own  future  heirship ;  also, 
lest  their  somewhat  provincial  manners  and 
shabby  dress  should  be  a  tacit  reproach  to  him 
for  his  half-and-half  kindness  toward  them. 
For  their  mother  acutely  felt  that  a  hundred 
pounds  spent  upon  them  now  would  be  worth 
more  than  a  thousand  ten  years  hence,  if  Mr. 
Oldham  lived  so  long.  She  would  sit  calcu- 
lating how  late  Ce'sar  might  go  to  college,  with 
any  hope  of  succeeding  there ;  and  whether 
Adrienne  and  the  younger  ones  could  acquire 
enough  accomplishments  to  make  them  fit  for 
their  probable  position.  And  then  she  caught 
herself  reckoning — horrible  idea! — how  long  the 
term  of  mortal  life  usually  extends,  and  how  long 
it  was  likely  to  extend  in  Mr.  Oldham's  case, 
until  she  started  up,  loathing  her  own  imagina- 
tion, feeling  as  guilty  as  if  she  were  compass- 
ing the  old  man's  death,  and  wondering  wheth- 
er the  promised  fortune  was  a  blessing  or  an  act- 
ual curse ;  for  it  seemed  both  alternately. 

Sometimes  the  hope  of  the  future  was  the 
only  thing  that  made  her  present  life  endura- 
ble ;  again,  it  haunted  her  like  an  evil  spirit, 
until  she  felt  her  very  nature  slowly  coiTupting 
under  its  influence.  She  was  conscious  of 
having  at  once  a  bitter  scorn  for  money,  and 
yet  an  exaggerated  appreciation  of  its  value, 
and  an  unutterable  craving  to  possess  it. 
Then  oftentimes  she  felt  herself  such  an  arrant 
hypocrite.  Luckily,  her  husband  never  talked 
of  the  future — it  was  not  his  way;  he  took 
things  easily,  would  have  eaten  calmly  his  last 
loaf,  and  then  been  quite  surprised  that  the 
cupboard  was  empty.  But  Bridget  often  let 
out  her  own  humble  fears  about  "them  poor 
dear  children,"  and  the  way  they  were  growing 
up ;  and  one  or  two  of  her  neighbors  came  and 
advised  with  her  on  the  subject — wondering 
what  she  meant  to  do  with  Cesar,  and  wheth- 
er, presently,  he  would  not  be  able  to  leave 
the  grammar-school  and  get  a  small  clerkship, 
or  be  apprenticed  to  some  respectable — very 
respectable — trade.  To  all  of  which  remarks 
and  not  unkindly  anxieties  she  had  but  one 
answer,  given  with  a  desperate  bluntness  which 
made  people  comment  rather  harshly  upon  how 
very  peculiar  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  growing,  that 
"she  did  not  know." 

It  was  the  truth ;  she  really  did  not  know. 
Mr.  Oldham's  total  silence  on  the  subject  often 
made  her  fancy  she  must  have  mistaken  him  in 
some  strange  way,  or  that  he  had  changed  his 
mind  altogether  concerning  her.  The  more 
so,  as  there  gradually  grew  up  a  slight  coolness 
between  him  and  her  husband.  Whether  it 
was   that  the  rector  had  offended  the  huge 


76 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


self-esteem  of  his  curate — and  of  all  enmity, 
the  bitterest  is  that  of  a  vain  man  whose  vanity 
has  been  wounded ;  or  else  the  curate  had  been 
seen  through — clearer  than  ever — by  the  astute 
and  acute  old  rector ;  but  certainly  they  never 
got  on  well  when  they  did  meet,  and  they  grad- 
ually met  as  seldom  as  possible.  Mr.  Oldham 
generally  called  at  Wren's  Nest  when  Mr. 
Scanlan  was  absent ;  and  Mr.  Scanlan  always 
found  an  excuse  ready  for  sending  his  wife 
alone  when  invitations  came  from  the  Rectory. 

Yet  still  he  every  now  and  then  harped  upon 
his  stock  grievance — the  great  injustice  with 
which  he  was  treated  in  being  so  underpaid, 
and  compelled,  for  the  sake  of  wife  and  family, 
to  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel  at  Ditchley, 
when  he  might  be  acquiring  fame  and  fortune 
in  London.  And  still  he  at  times  suggested 
going  there,  or  threatening  to  go,  that,  to  de- 
tain him,  Mr.  Oldham  might  still  further  in- 
crease his  salary.  To  all  of  which  notions  and 
J)rojects  his  wife  opposed  a  firm,  resolute  nega- 
tive— that  of  silence.  She  let  him  talk  as  much 
as  he  liked — and  he  dearly  enjoyed  talking — 
but  she  herself  spoke  no  more. 

At  length  a  thing  happened  which  broke  this 
spell  of  sullen  dumbness — broke  it  perhaps  for 
her  good,  for  she  felt  herself  slowly  freezing  up 
into  a  hard  and  bitter  woman.  Still,  the  way 
the  blow  fell  was  sharp  and  unexpected. 

Her  husband  came  home  one  night,  irritable 
exceedingly.  Now  many  a  wife  knows  well 
enough  what  that  means,  and  her  heart  yearns 
over  the  much-tried  man,  who  has  been  knocked 
about  in  the  world  all  day  and  comes  to  her 
for  rest,  and  shame  if  he  can  not  find  it !  even 
though  he  may  task  her  patience  and  forbear- 
ance a  little  sometimes.  But  irritability  was 
not  Edward's  failing;  he  rather  failed  in  the 
opposite  direction — in  that  imperturbable  in- 
difference to  all  cares  and  all  troubles  which 
did  not  personally  annoy  himself,  which  often 
passes  muster  as  "the  best  temper  in  the 
world;"  though,  undoubtedly,  he  was  by  na- 
ture of  a  better  temper  than  his  wife,  in  whom 
circumstances  were  gradually  increasing  certain 
acerbities,  not  uncommon  in  strong  and  high- 
spirited  women,  but  yet  far  from  beautiful. 
And  Mr.  Scanlan's  easy  laisser  aller  tried  Mrs. 
Scanlan  to  the  last  limit  of  feminine  endur- 
ance. 

To-day,  however,  they  seemed  to  have 
changed  characters.  She  was  calm,  and  he 
was  sorely  out  of  humor.  He  found  fault  with 
Bridget,  the  children,  the  house,  every  thing — 
nay,  even  with  herself,  which  he  did  not  often 
do.  And  he  looked  so  ill  and  wretched,  lying 
on  the  sofa  all  the  evening,  and  scarcely  saying 
a  word  to  any  one,  that  she  grew  alarmed. 

When  the  children  had  gone  to  bed  the  se- 
cret came  out — not  naturally,  but  dragged  out 
of  him,  like  a  worm  out  of  its  hole,  and  then 
pieced  together  little  by  little,  until,  in  spite  of 
numerous  concealments  and  contradictions, 
Mrs,  Scanlan  arrived  at  a  tolerable  idea  of  what 
was  wrong. 


Her  husband  had  gone  and  done  what  most 
men  of  his  tempei-ament  and  character  are  very 
prone  to  do — it  looks  so  generous  to  oblige  a 
friend,  and  flatters  one's  vanity  to  be  able  to  do 
it — he  put  his  name  to  a  bill  of  accommodation. 
The  "  friend"  turned  out  as  such  persons  usually 
do,  a  mere  scoundrel,  and  had  just  vanished, 
to  Greece,  or  Turkey,  or  Timbuctoo,  little  mat- 
ter where  ;  but  he  could  not  be  found,  and  the 
acceptor  of  the  bill  had  to  pay  it  all. 

"  1  declare,  Josephine,  I  had  no  idea  of  such 
a  thing,"  pleaded  he,  eagerly ;  "  I  thought  it 
was  a  mere  form  :  and  after  it  was  done  I  quite 
forgot  all  about  it.  I  did,  indeed,  my  dear 
wife." 

"I  fully  believe  you,"  Josephine  said,  bitter- 
ly. Hitherto  she  had  opposed  not  a  word  to 
his  stream  of  talk,  explanations,  regrets,  apol- 
ogies. He  never  looked  at  her,  or  he  would 
have  seen  her  slowly  whitening  face,  her  rigid 
mouth,  and  knotted  hands. 

"But  isn't  it  unlucky — so  very  unlucky  for 
me  ?" 

"  For  us,  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  slow- 
ly. "  But  do  you  think  you  can  tax  your  mem- 
ory enough  to  tell  me  just  two  facts?  How 
much  have  you  to  pay  ?  and  how  soon  must  you 
pay  it  ?" 

Facts  were  not  the  prominent  peculiarity 
of  Edward  Scanlan ;  but  at  last  She  elicited 
from  him  that  the  bill  was  over-due,  and  that  it 
amounted  to  two  hundred  pounds. 

"Two hundred  pounds !  And  when  did  you 
sign  it  ?" 

"A  year  ago — six  months — I  really  forget." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  indignant  eyes. 
"  Edward,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  at  the  time  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  would  have  made  such  a 
fuss  about  it.  And  besides  it  was  merely  sign- 
ing my  name.  I  never  expected  to  be  called 
upon  to  pay  a  farthing.  I  never  should  have 
been  but  that  my  friend — " 

"  You  have  never  said  yet  who  is  your  friend." 

"  Ah,  that  was  your  fault.  You  always  dis- 
liked him,  so  that  I  could  not  mention  him. 
Otherwise  I  should  never  have  thought  of  not 
telling  you.  It  was  your  doing,  you  see ;  you 
were  always  so  unjust  to  poor  Summerhayes." 

"So — it  was  Mr.  Summerhayes  for  whom 
you  accepted  the  bill  ?" 

"I  could  not  help  it,  Josephine,  I  assure 
you.    He  kept  writing  to  me  letter  after  letter." 

"What  letters?     I  never  saw  them." 

Edward  Scanlan  blushed ;  yes,  he  had  the 
grace  to  blush.  "No,  they  never  came  here  : 
I  knew  they  would  only  make  you  angry,  so  I 
had  them  directed  to  the  post-office.  In  fact, 
my  darling,  I  was  really  afraid  of  you." 

"Afraid  of  me!"  said  Josephine,  turning 
away.  And  as  she  did  so  there  crept  into  her 
heart  a  feeling  worse  than  indignation,  jeal- 
ousy, or  wounded  love — the  most  fatal  feeling 
any  wife  can  have — not  anger,  but  contempt 
for  her  husband. 

Edward  Scanlan  was  mistaken ;  she  made 
"  no  fuss"  about  this.    Women  like  her  seldom 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


77 


waste  their  strength  in  idle  struggles  against 
the  inevitable.  She  bore  the  disastrous  reve- 
lation so  quietly  that  he  soon  began  to  think 
it  had  not  aiFected  her  at  all,  and  recovered 
his  spirits  accordingly.  If  Josephine  did  not 
mind  it,  of  course  the  thing  could  be  of  no  con- 
sequence :  she  would  find  a  way  out  of  it ;  she 
was  so  very  sensible  a  woman.  For  among  the 
pathetic  bits  of  good  in  him  which  accounted 
for  his  wife's  lingering  love,  was  this  unfailing 
belief  in  her,  and  unlimited  reliance  upon  her. 
Surely,  with  the  aid  and  counsel  of  his  good 
Josephine  he  would  be  able  to  swim  through 
that  unpleasant  affair.  "  Unpleasant"  was  the 
only  light  in  which  it  occurred  to  him.  The 
actual  sin  of  the  thing,  and  the  weakness,  al- 
most amounting  to  wickedness,  of  a  man  who, 
rather  than  say  No  to  another  man,  will  com- 
promise the  interests  of  his  own  nearest  and 
dearest,  did  not  strike  in  any  way  the  curate 
of  Ditchley.     He  became  quite  cheerful. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  how  well  you  take  it. 
Tnrly,  my  dear,  you  are  the  best  wife  in  En- 
gland, and  I  always  say  so  to  every  body. 
And  since  you  agree  with  me  that  I  could  not 
avoid  this  difiiculty,  I  hope  you  will  help  me  in 
trying  to  get  out  of  it." 

"How?" 

"By  going  to  Mr.  Oldham  and  asking  him 
to  lend  us  the  money.  He  has  lots  of  capital 
lying  idle — I  know  that — and  two  hundred 
pounds  is  nothing  to  him,  even  if  he  gave  it 
instead  of  lending  it.  But  I  don't  ask  him  to 
give  it,  only  to  lend  it,  and  on  ample  security. " 

*'  On  what  security  ?" 

"  My  own ;  my  I O  U — my  *  promise  to  pay,' 
which  perhaps  you  don't  understand ;  women 
are  so  ignorant  about  business.  Personal  se- 
curity is  of  coarse  all  I  can  offer,  unless  I  had  a 
fortune.  Heigh-ho!  I  wish  somebody — some 
wealthy  old  spinster,  or  miserly  old  bachelor 
like  Oldham — would  leave  me  one !" 

Josephine's  breath  almost  failed  her.  Though 
her  husband  had  spoken  in  the  most  random, 
careless  way,  she  looked  at  him  in  terror,  as  if 
he  knew  the  truth.  But  no ;  her  own  timorous 
conscience  had  been  alone  to  blame. 

"  Why,  Josephine,  how  red  you  have  turned  ! 
Have  I  said  such  a  dreadful  thing,  or  are  you 
getting  furious,  as  usual,  because  I  suggest  ap- 
plying to  Mr.  Oldham  for  money  ?  Not  in  the 
old  way,  you  will  observe ;  this  way  is  quite  legal 
and  unobjectionable  —  a  transaction  between 
gentleman  and  gentleman;  and  he  ought  to 
feel  rather  flattered  that  I  do  apply  to  him. 
But  you — you  seem  as  frightened  of  that  poor 
old  fellow — who  is  fast  breaking  down,  I  see — 
as  if  he  were  the  Great  Mogul  himself." 

Josephine  paused  a  little.  In  her  answer  it 
was  necessary  to  weigh  every  word. 

"  Edward,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  you  do  this 
you  must  do  it  yourself.  I  can  not  and  will 
not  beg  from  Mr.  Oldham  in  any  shape  or 
under  any  pretext.  He  pays  us  sufficiently, 
and  more  than  sufficiently,  and  I  wish  to  keep 
free  from  all  obligations  to  him." 


"You  are  perfectly  silly!  Why  should  we 
not  get  as  much  out  of  him  as  we  can?  He 
has  no  children,  as  we  have,  and  goodness  only 
knows  who  is  his  heir,  if  he  has  any.  He  may 
leave  all  his  money  to  a  college  or  a  foundling 
hospital.     Let  him  !     Who  cares  ?" 

"  No  one  ought  to  care.  It  is  his  own,  to  do 
what  he  likes  with." 

"  Bless  me !  If  I  thought  I  had  the  slightest 
chance  wouldn't  I  have  a  try  for  it!  If  the 
rector  would  only  leave  his  property  to  his  poor 
curate — not  the  most  unnatural  thing  either! — 
why  we  might  almost  live  u\)on  post-obits.'* 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  is  &  post-obit  f' 

"  You  innocent,  dear  woman !  Only  a  bond 
given  as  security  for  money  advanced,  to  be 
paid  after  the  death  of  one's  father,  or  uncle, 
or  any  one  to  whom  one  is  lawful  heir.  Many 
a  young  fellow  supports  himself  for  years  upon 
post-obits.  1  only  wish  I  had  a  chance  of  try- 
ing the  system." 

"Fortunately  you  have  none,"  said  his  wife, 
in  her  hard,  unwifely  tone.  And  yet,  had  she 
been  married  to  a  hero,  nay,  to  an  ordinarily 
upright  and  high-minded  man,  Josephine  Scan- 
Ian  would  any  day  have  died  for  her  husband. 
Harder  still,  she  would  have  helped  him  to  die. 
She  was  the  sort  of  woman  to  have  gone  with  him 
to  the  very  foot  of  the  scaffold,  clung  around  his 
haltered  neck,  or  laid  his  disgraced  head  upon 
her  bosom,  heeding  nothing  for  worldly  shame, 
so  that  she  herself  could  r"Srerence  him  still. 
But  now  ?  Well,  the  man  was — what  he  was ; 
and,  alas !  he  was  her  husband.  • 

She  might  have  been  too  hard  upon  him,  ex- 
acting from  him  a  nobility  of  thought  and  action 
of  which  few  are  capable — striving  forever  to 
pull  out  the  mote  from  his  eyes,  and  forgetting 
the  beam  in  her  own.     And  yet — and  yet — 

I  can  not  judge — I  dare  not.  When  I — 
Winifred  (not  Winifred  Weston  now) — look  at 
the  dear  face  opposite  to  me,  on  my  own  hearth, 
I  know  that  such  a  marriage  would  have  mad- 
dened me. 

Ignorant  as  she  was  in  many  worldly  things, 
Mrs.  Scanlan  knew  enough  to  see  that,  though 
her  husband  had  brought  himself  into  it  foolish- 
ly rather  than  guiltily,  his  position  was  very 
critical.  Unless  he  could  meet  the  bill,  he 
would  have  to  give  up  every  thing  he  had — 
and  that  was  not  worth  two  hundred  pounds. 
No  wonder  that,  as  she  drew  him  b^ck  again 
to  the  subject  in  hand,  and  they  began  to  dis- 
cuss every  possible  way  In  which  he  could 
avoid  the  consequences  of  his  imprudence,  Ed- 
ward Scanlan  gradually  became  so  terrified  that, 
even  with  the  demon  of  contempt  lurking  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  his  wife  felt  almost  sorry 
for  him. 

"  Help  me !  do  help  me !"  he  cried.  "  I  have 
nobody  in  the  wide  world  to  help  me  but  you." 

That  was  true ;  truer  far  than  he  meant  it  to 
be.  For  the  once  charming  curate  had  a  little 
worn  out  the  admiration  of  his  flock.  He  got 
fewer  invitations  than  he  used  to  have,  and 
those  among  the  new  rather  than  the  old  in- 


78 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


habitants  of  Bitchley.  Of  these  latter,  the 
younger  folks  began  to  look  upon  him  as  a 
middle-aged  father  of  a  family,  and  the  seniors 
found,  both  in  his  conversation  and  character, 
a  certain  lack  of  that  stability  and  wisdom 
which  replace  so  nobly,  in  many  men,  the  at- 
tractiveness of  youth.  Perhaps,  too,  others 
besides  Bridget  and  Mr.  Oldham,  when  thrown 
in  nearer  relations  with  him,  had  in  course  of 
years  "seen  through"  Mr.  Scanlan.  At  any 
rate,  his  popularity  was  a  little  waning  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  if  he  did  not  guess  the  fact 
his  wife  did — pretty  plainly. 

As  to  how  it  affected  her — well,  a  man  might 
not  easily  understand,  but  I  think  most  women 
would.  When  he  said — with  what  he  did  not 
know  was  truth,  only  pitiful  appeal — "I  have 
nobody  to  help  me  but  you,"  and  leaned  his 
head  on  her  shoulder,  his  wife  did  not  thrust 
him  away ;  she  drew  him  closer,  with  a  sad 
tenderness. 

"Poor  Edward!"  said  she,  softly.  "Yes; 
I  will  help  you  if  I  can." 

And  she  sat  a  long  time  thinking ;  while 
Mr.  Scanlan  went  on  talking,  arguing  with  her 
in  every  possible  form  the  duty  and  necessity 
of  her  making  application  to  Mr.  Oldham.  She 
returned  no  answer,  for  another  scheme  had 
darted  into  her  mind.  Alas !  she  was  growing 
into  a  painfully  quick-witted  woman — as  alive 
to  the  main  chance,  she  often  thought,  as  any 
man  could  be. 

Those  jewels  of  hers — long  put  by  and  nev- 
er used — they  were  worth  fully  two  hundred 
pounds.  She  knew  that  by  the  brooch  she  had 
once  sold.  She  had  never  tried  to  sell  any 
more ;  she  thought  she  would  keep  them,  these 
relics  of  her  youth  and  her  early  married  life, 
until  the  day  when  her  prosperous  condition 
would  make  them  suitable  for  her  Avearing. 
But  now,  if  she  could  dispose  of  them,  tempo- 
rarily, to  some  friend  who  would  generously  al- 
low her  to  redeem  them !  And  then  she  thought 
of  Lady  Emma  Lascelles,  between  whom  and 
herself  had  sprung  up  something  as  like  friend- 
ship as  could  well  exist  between  a  curate's  wife 
and  an  earl's  daughter  married  to  a  million- 
aire. 

"I  will  get  Lady  Emma's  address  from  the 
Rectory,  and  write  to  her."  And  she  explained 
to  Mr.  Scanlan  the  reason  why. 

He  did  not  object,  having  fallen  into  that 
dejected  condition  in  which  he  never  objected 
to  any  thing,  but  let  his  wife  do  just  as  she 
liked.  Nor  did  he  now  take  a  sentimental 
view  of  her  parting  with  her  marriage  pearls  ; 
the  practicalities  of  life  had  long  since  knocked 
all  sentiment  out  of  him.  He  only  implored 
her  to  conduct  the  transaction  with  the  utmost 
care,  and  let  nobody  know,  especially  the  rec- 
tor. 

"  For  I  think — indeed,  I  am  sure — that  some- 
body has  given  him  a  hint  about  the  matter. 
He  sent  me  a  rather  curt  note  requesting  me 
to  come  and  speak  to  him  at  ten  o'clock  to- 
morrow  morning  on  my  way  to  the  vestry- 


meeting.  It  may  be  only  about  vestry  busi- 
ness ;  but  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  it,  or  I 
wish  you  could  go  instead  of  rae,  my  dearest 
Josephine." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  said,  with  a  mixture 
of  pity  and  bitterness ;  and  then  stopped  her- 
self from  saying  any  more. 

They  took  the  pearls  out  of  her  jewel-case, 
a  beautiful  set — the  bridegroom's  present  on 
her  wedding-day.  But  neither  referred  to 
that ;  possibly  neither  remembered  the  fact ; 
these  memories  wear  out  so  strangely  fast 
amidst  all  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of  life ; 
and  the  crisis  of  the  present  was  too  imminent, 
the  suspense  too  great. 

"  Lady  Emma  is  at  Paris  now,  I  think  ;  but 
I  can  easily  get  her  exact  address.  I  will  go 
up  to  the  Rectory  for  it  to-morrow  morning ; 
or  you  could  ask  yourself,  Edward." 

"  Not  I.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Manage  your  own  affairs. " 

"My  own  affairs!"  Well,  they  were  her 
own  now — her  children's  whole  future  might 
be  at  stake  on  the  chance  of  Lady  Emma's  act- 
ing promptly  and  kindly.  But  there  was  little 
fear,  she  had  so  good  a  heart.  "I  feel  sure 
she  will  buy  them,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  locking 
up  the  case  again.  "And  I  shall  beg  her  to 
let  me  buy  them  back  if  ever  we  are  rich  enough 
for  me  to  wear  them." 

"You  never  will  wear  them,"  said  the  cu- 
rate, drearily.  "Depend  upon  it,  Josephine, 
we  are  slowly  sinking — sinking  into  abject  pov- 
erty. You  would  not  let  me  get  a  chance  of 
rising  in  the  world,  and  now  you  must  reap  the 
results.  Mark  my  words,  your  sons  will  end  in 
being  mere  tradesmen — wretched,  petty  trades- 
men." For  Mr.  Scanlan,  being  only  a  gener- 
ation removed  from  that  class,  had  a  great  con- 
tempt for  it,  and  a  great  dread  of  being  in  any 
way  identified  or  mixed  up  with  it. 

"My  sons!"  cried  the  poor  mother,  sudden- 
ly remembering  them  and  what  they  might 
come  to,  if  at  this  crisis  things  went  ill,  if  no 
money  were  attainable  to  meet  the  bill,  and  it 
were  put  into  a  lawyer's  hands ;  when,  suppos- 
ing he  were  unable  to  pay  it,  he  would  assured- 
ly be  sent  to  prison.  After  such  a  dire  dis- 
grace it  would  be  all  over  with  him  and  them 
all,  for  Mr.  Oldham  would  never  receive  him 
again  as  curate,  aiid  Ditchley,  which,  with  all 
its  narrowness,  was  quite  old-fashioned  in  its 
innocent  honesty,  certainly  never  would. 

"My  poor  boys!"  Mrs.  Scanlan  repeated, 
piteously  ;  then  started  up  erect,  her  black  eyes 
flashing,  and  her  whole  figure  dilated.  "I  do 
not  care,"  she  said  ;  "whatever  happens,  I  do 
not  care.  Edward,  I  had  i-ather  see  my  Ce'sar, 
my  Louis,  an  honest  butcher  or  baker  than  a 
thief  of  a  '  gentleman' — like  your  friend  Mr. 
Sumraerhayes." 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


79 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Aftek  his  wife's  fierce  ebullition  about  "a 
thief  of  a  gentleman"  Mr.  Scanlan  did  the  only 
wise  thing  a  husband  could  do  under  the  cir- 
cumstances— he  held  his  tongue.  Next  morn- 
ing, even,  he  took  every  opportunity,  not  of  re- 
newing, but  of  eluding  the  subject.  Fortunately 
he  had  to  leave  early ;  and  after  he  had  started 
for  a  long  day  of  what  he  called  "parish  duties" 
— which  meant  a  brief  vestry-meeting  and  a 
long  series  of  pastoral  visits  afterward  to  lunch- 
eon, dinner,  and  so  on,  at  various  hospitable 
houses  —  Josephine  sat  down  to  collect  her 
thoughts  before  she  paid  her  call  to  the  Rec- 

tOlT. 

Though  she  saw  Mr.  Oldham  less  often  than 
of  yore,  and  there  had  grown  up  between  them 
a  vague  reserve,  still  she  knew  he  liked  her 
still,  and  she  liked  him  very  sincerely.  Both 
the  old  man  and  the  young  woman  had  instinct- 
ively felt  from  the  first  that  theirs  were  sympa- 
thetic and  faithful  natures,  and  no  drawbacks 
of  circumstances  could  alienate  the  firm  friend- 
ship between  them,  though  it  was  one  of  those 
dormant  friendships  which  sometimes  never 
thoroughly  awaken  in  this  world,  and,  ceasing 
out  of  it,  leave  us  with  the  feeling  less  of  what 
they  were  than  what  they  might  have  been. 
Nevertheless,  the  tie  between  Mrs.  Scanlan  and 
the  old  rector  was  strong  enough  to  make  it 
difficult  for  her  to  disguise  from  him  her  pres- 
ent heavy  anxiety,  especially  if,  as  her  husband 
suspected,  he  had  some  inkling  of  it  already. 
What  if  he  questioned  her  why  she  wanted 
Lady  Emma's  address?  Some  simple  femi- 
nine reason  might  easily  be  assigned ;  but  that 
Josephine  scorned.  No  small  womanish  arts 
were  at  all  in  her  line ;  she  must  always  go 
straight  to  her  point.  If  Mr.  Oldham  asked 
her,  she  must,  of  course,  tell  him  the  exact 
state  of  the  case ;  but,  for  her  husband's  sake, 
she  determined  to  keep  it  back  as  long  as  pos- 
sible. 

These  anxious  thoughts  showed  so  plainly  in 
her  face  that  Bridget,  coming  into  the  parlor  to 
find  out  the  cause  of  her  mistress's  unusual  state 
of  quiescence,  read  them  at  once. 

"You've  got  another  botheration,  ma'am,  I 
see.  Tell  it  me,  do.  The  children  are  safe 
out  of  doors ;  look  at  'em  all  playing  in  the 
garden,  so  full  of  fun !  It  '11  do  your  heart 
good,  ma'am  dear." 

Poor  Bridget  had  touched  the  right  chord ; 
the  hard,  stony  look  passed  from  Mrs.  Scanlan's 
face ;  she  began  to  weep,  and  once  beginning 
she  could  not  stop.  By  degrees  her  faithful 
servant  had  coaxed  her  out  of  half  her  trouble, 
and  guessed  the  rest. 

Bridget  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  being  behind 
her  mistress's  back,  clenched  her  sturdy  fist  and 
pulled  her  good,  ugly  face  into  a  succession  of 
villainous  frowns,  which  might  be  meant  for 
any  body  or  nobody — but  she  said  nothing. 
And  there,  I  think,  the  poor  servant  deserves 
some  credit,  and  some  pity  too.     Her  life  was 


a  long  series  of  self-suppression.  What  she 
felt  toward  her  mistress  and  the  children  was 
patent  enough  ;  her  feelings  toward  her  master 
nobody  knew.  It  is  hard  to  disguise  love  ;  but 
it  is  still  harder  to  hide  its  opposite ;  and,  per- 
haps, the  hardest  thing  of  all  is  to  see  the  ob- 
ject of  one's  love  a  willing,  deluded  victim  to  the 
object  of  one's — not  hatred,  perhaps — but  in- 
tense aversion  and  contempt.  Bridget  despised 
her  master ;  there  was  no  doubt  about  that ;  yet 
I  feel  sure  that  throughout  her  life  she  never  let 
her  mistress  know  it.  Which  fact,  I  think,  may 
fairly  place  the  poor,  unlettered  Irishwoman  in 
the  rank  of  heroines. 

Bridget  had  no  question  that  Lady  Emma 
would  buy  the  jewels,  and  hold  her  tongue  on 
the  matter  too.  "She  was  a  rale  lady,  and 
could  keep  a  secret."  Logic  at  which  Mrs. 
Scanlan  smiled  faintly.  But  still  in  many  ways 
the  devotedness  of  the  woman  comforted  her 
heart — not  for  the  first  time. 

It  may  seem  strange,  and  some  people  may 
be  much  scandalized  at  it,  that  this  poor  lady 
should  be  so  confidential  with  her  servant;  more 
so  than  with  her  husband.  But  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  in  both  Irish  and  French  house- 
holds the  relation  between  superiors  and  infe- 
riors is  both  freer  and  closer  than  it  is  in  En- 
gland generally ;  and,  besides,  she  could  trust 
Bridget.  No  shams  with  her!  no  mean,  dou- 
ble-minded, worldly  ways;  no  half-truths,  or 
prevarications  arranged  so  cleverly  as,  without 
telling  an  actual  lie,  to  give  the  appearance  of 
one.  Irish  though  she  was — (I  confess  with  sor- 
row an  all  but  universal  Celtic  fault !) — Bridget 
had  learned,  difficultly  and  painfully,  to  "tell 
truth  and  shame  the  devil,"  and  her  mistress 
loved  her  accordingly. 

"  Wish  me  good-speed,"  said  she,  as  the  lov- 
ing servant  threw  something  after  her  from  the 
door  "for  luck."  "I  trust  I  may  come  back 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  I  go." 

And  slipping  away  out  of  sight  of  her  little 
folks,  who  would  have  overwhelmed  her  with 
questions  about  her  unusual  errand  to  Ditchley 
alone,  Mrs.  Scanlan  walked  quickly  across  the 
common,  even  as  she  had  done  the  day  she  had 
first  heard  Mr.  Oldham's  secret,  years  ago. 

How  many  they  seemed !  And  how  many 
more  appeared  to  have  slipped  by  since  she  was 
married !  Manied — on  just  such  a  morning  as 
this,  a  soft  February  morning,  with  the  sap  just 
stirring  in  the  leafless  trees,  the  buds  forming 
on  the  bare  hedges,  the  sky  growing  blue,  and 
the  sunshine  warm,  and  the  thrushes  beginning 
to  sing.  All  the  world  full  of  youth  and  hope, 
and  half-awakened  spring,  as  her  life  was  then. 
For  she  had  loved  him  ;  with  a  foolish,  girlish, 
half-fledged  love ;  still,  undoubtedly,  she  had 
loved  him,  this  Edward  Scanlan,  whom  now 
she  could  hardly  believe  sometimes  was  the 
Edward  she  had  married. 

A  frantic  vision  crossed  her  of  what  she  had 
thought  then  their  married  life  would  be  ;  what 
it  might  have  been^ay,  and  what  even  after 
they  had  settled  at  Ditchley  she  had  tried  hard 


80 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


to  make  it.  For  how  little  their  loss  of  fortune 
would  have  harmed  them  had  Mr.  Scanlan 
only  been  content  "with  such  things  as  he  had 
— had  they  rejoiced  over  their  daily  blessings, 
and  been  patient  with  their  inevitable  cares! 
How  much  wiser  if,  instead  of  pestering  Prov- 
idence like  angry  creditors  for  what  they  fan- 
cied their  due,  they  had  accepted  His  gifts  like 
dear  children,  believing  in  the  father  who  loved 
even  while  He  denied ! 

This  faith,  which  I  conclude  Mr.  Scanlan 
taught,  like  most  clergymen,  in  the  letter  of 
his  sermons,  was  now  the  only  rag  of  religion 
left  in  Josephine.  Doctrines  which  her  hus- 
band with  his  other  Evangelical  brethren  was 
very  strong  in  she  did  not  believe  in  one  whit  ; 
or  rather  she  never  considered  whether  they 
were  true  or  false.  They  had  been  dinned  into 
her  with  such  weary  iteration,  preached  at  her 
on  all  occasions — only  preached,  not  practiced 
— that  now  she  let  them  alone ;  they  went  in  at 
one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  She  did  not  act- 
ually loathe  them ;  mercifully,  Christianity  is 
so  divine  that  all  pure  souls  instinctively  accept 
it  and  cling  to  it,  in  spite  of  the  corruptions  of 
its  followers ;  but  she  ignored  them  as  much  as 
she  could,  and  taught  as  little  as  possible  of 
them  to  her  children.  But  at  every  step  she 
was  stopped  ;  even  at  the  Lord's  Prayer,  when 
her  youngest  child,  to  whom  she  tried  to  ex- 
plain why  he  was  to  call  God  "Our  Father," 
and  Avhat  a  father  was,  horrified  her  by  the  sim- 
ple question,  "  Is  God  any  thing  like  papa  ?" 

Poor  mother !  Poor  children !  And  they 
had  all  "souls  to  be  saved,"  as  Mr.  Scanlan 
would  have  put  it.  But  happily  he  did  not 
perplex  himself  much  about  the  souls  of  his 
own  family  ;  he  took  it  for  granted  that,  being 
his  family,  they  were  all  right,  when  in  truth 
they  were  in  a  spirit  of  skeptical  contempt 
worse  than  the  blackest  heathenism.  It  re- 
quired many  years  and  many  sorrows  to  bring 
Josephine  Scanlan  to  the  light ;  and  her  chil- 
dren, save  perhaps  Adrienne,  died  without  see- 
ing it,  or  recognizing  in  "the  Gospel"  any 
thing  beyond  a  cant  phrase,  which  meant  no- 
thing, or  worse  than  nothing.  '*No  wonder!" 
said  Bridget  one  day  to  me,  unconscious  of  the 
bitter  satire  of  her  words.  "You  see,  Miss, 
their  papa  was  a  clergyman." 

Fiercely  and  fast,  thinking  as  little  as  pos- 
sible of  how  she  should  word  her  eiTand,  and 
nerving  herself  for  disappointment,  as  if  it  were 
her  usual  lot,  Mrs.  Scanlan  walked  through  the 
Rectory  garden  to  the  front-door.  It  stood 
wide  open,  though  the  day  was  cold,  and  up 
and  down  the  usually  silent  house  were  sounds 
of  many  feet.  Nevertheless,  she  rang  several 
times  before  the  bell  was  answered.  Then  ap- 
peared some  under-servant  with  a  frightened 
face,  by  which  Josephine  perceived  that  some- 
thing was  terribly  wrong. 

"What  has  happened — your  master?"  and 
a  sudden  constriction  of  the  heart  made  her 
stop.  She  felt  almost  as  if  her  thoughts  had 
murdered  him. 


No,  Mr.  Oldham  was  not  dead.  Worse  than 
dead,  almost,  for  his  own  sake  and  other^.  He 
had  gone  to  his  study,  desiring  he  might  not  be 
disturbed  till  lunch-time,  as  he  had  "  business." 
At  one  o'clock  the  butler  went  in  and  found 
him  lying  on  the  floor,  alive  and  sensible,  but 
speechless  and  motionless.  How  long  he  had 
lain  there,  or  what  had  brought  on  the  fit,  no 
one  knew,  or  was  ever  likely  to  know.  For 
Dr.  Waters,  who  had  been  fetched  at  once, 
said  it  was  very  unlikely  he  would  ever  speak 
again.  The  paralysis  which  had  struck  him 
was  of  that  saddest  kind  which  afi'ects  the 
body,  not  the  mind;  at  least  not  at  first. 
Poor  Mr.  Oldham  would  be,  for  the  rest  of  his 
days,  whether  few  or  many,  little  better  than  a 
living  corpse,  retaining  still  the  imprisoned  but 
conscious  soul. 

"Oh,  doctor,  this  is  temble!  Is  there  no 
hope?" 

Dr.  Waters,  coming  down  the  staircase, 
wrung  Mrs.  Scanlan's  hands,  but  replied  no- 
thing. He  was  much  affected  himself,  and  so 
was  Mr.  Langhorne,  the  rector's  man  of  busi- 
ness, who  followed  him.  The  two  old  gentle- 
men— old,  though  still  much  younger  than  Mr. 
Oldham — were  noted  as  very  great  "chums," 
and  the  two  honestest  and  best  men  in  all 
Ditchley,  even  though,  as  satirical  people 
sometimes  said,  one  was  a  doctor  and  the 
other  a  lawyer.  They  stood  talking  together 
mournfully,  evidently  consulting  over  this  sad 
conjuncture  of  aff"airs. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  putting  seals  upon  all  his 
papers,"  said  Mr.  Langhorne.  "  It  is  the  only 
thing  to  be  done  until — until  further  change. 
There  is  nobody  to  take  any  authority  here: 
he  has  no  relations." 

"  Except  Lady  Emma,  and  she  is  abroad ;  I 
do  not  know  where.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Scanlan 
does." 

Dr.  Waters  turned  to  her,  as  she  stood  aloof, 
feeling  herself  one  too  many  in  this  house  of 
grief,  and  as  if  she  had  no  right  there.  And 
yet  she  felt  the  grief  as  deeply  as  any  one; 
more  so,  perhaps,  because  it  was  not  unmixed 
with  remorse.  Kind,  good  Mr.  Oldham! — 
why  had  she  neglected  him  of  late — why  suf- 
fered her  foolish  pride,  her  ridiculous  sensitive- 
ness, to  come  between  her  and  him  ?  How  she 
wished  she  had  put  both  aside,  and  shown  fear- 
lessly to  the  lonely  old  man  what  a  tender  and 
truly  filial  heart  she  bore  toward  him ! 

"I  know  nothing  about  Lady  Emma,"  said 
she,  forgetting  how  she  had  come  to  ask  that 
very  question,  and  how  serious  it  was  for  her- 
self that  it  could  not  be  answered.  Her  own 
affairs  had  drifted  away  from  her  mind.  ' '  Only 
tell  me,  will  he  ever  recover,  ever  speak  again  ?" 

"I  fear  not ;  though  he  may  lie  in  his  pres- 
ent state  for  months,  and  even  years ;  I  hate 
known  such  cases.  Why  do  you  ask?  Did 
you  come  to  speak  to  him  about  business?  I 
hope  all  is  right  between  your  husband  and  him  ?" 

Mrs.  Scanlan  bent  her  head  assentingly. 

"That  is  well.     I  was  half  afraid  they  had 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


81 


IS  TUEEB  NO  HOPE?" 


had  some  little  difficulties  of  late.  And  now 
Mr.  Scanlan  will  have  the  whole  duty  on  his 
hands,  and  Langhorne  and  I,  as  church-ward- 
ens, ought  to  make  our  arrangements  accord- 
ingly." 

So  they  both  fell  into  business  talk,  as  men 
do  fall,  even  after  such  a  catastrophe  as  this, 
though  it  seemed  shocking  enough  to  the  wo- 
man who,  with  her  woman's  heart  full,  stood 
and  listened.  No  one  interfered  with  her.  As 
the  curate's  wife  she  had  a  certain  right  to  be 
in  the  house.  No  other  right  did  she  for  a  mo- 
ment venture  to  urge.  She  only  sat  and  listened. 

Shortly  she  caught  a  sentence  which  startled 
her. 

"  He  will  never  be  capable  of  business  again, 
that  is  quite  certain,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  do 
hope  he  has  made  his  will." 

"Hem — I  believe — I  have  some  reason  to 
suppose  he  has,"  replied  the  cautious  lawyer. 
"But  these  things  are  of  course  strictly  pri- 
vate." 

"  Certainly,  certainly  ;  I  only  asked  because 
he  once  said  he  intended  to  make  me  his  ex- 
ecutor. But  he  might  do  that  without  telling 
F 


me ;  and  I  shall  find  it  out  soon  enough  when 
all  is  over." 

"All  over,"  that  strange  periphrasis  oat  of 
the  many  by  which  people  like  to  escape  the 
blank  plain  word — death !  Mrs.  Scanlan  list- 
ened— she  could  not  keep  herself  from  listen- 
ing— with  an  eagerness  that,  when  she  caught 
the  eyes  of  the  two  old  men,  made  her  blush 
crimson,  like  a  guilty  person. 

But  the  doctor's  mind  was  preoccupied,  and 
the  lawyer  apparently  either  knew  nothing,  or 
else — and  this  thought  smote  Josephine  with  a 
cold  fear — there  was  nothing  to  be  known.  Mr. 
Oldham  might  long  ago  have  burned  his  will, 
and  made  another.  Her  future  and  that  of  her 
children  hung  on  a  mere  thread. 

The  suspense  was  so  dreadful,  the  conflict  in 
her  conscience  so  severe,  that  she  could  not 
stand  it. 

'*  I  think,"  she  said,  "  since  I  can  do  no  good 
here,  I  had  better  go  home.  Shall  I  write  to 
Lady  Emma  ?  But  in  any  case  I  want  her  ad- 
dress for  myself;  will  Mr.  Langhorne  look  in 
Mr.  Oldham's  address-book  for  it  ?" 

This  was  easily  done,  the  old  rector  being 


82 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


so  accurate  and  methodical  in  all  his  habits. 
But  the  result  of  the  search  stopped  any  hope 
of  applying  to  Lady  Emma,  even  if,  under  the 
circumstances,  Mrs.  Scanlan  could  have  made 
up  her  mind  to  apply.  The  address  was,  "  Poste 
Restante,  Vienna." 

But  Josephine  scarcely  felt  that  last  shock. 
All  she  said  was,  "Very  well;  she  is  too  far 
off  for  me  to  write  to  her.     I  will  go  home." 

But  she  had  hardly  got  through  the  Rectory 
garden  when  Mr.  Langhorne  overtook  her. 

The  good  lawyer  was  a  very  shy  man.  He 
had  raised  himself  from  the  ranks,  and  still 
found  his  humble  origin,  his  gauche  manners, 
and  a  most  painful  stammer  he  had,  stood  a 
good  deal  in  his  way.  But  he  was  a  very  hon- 
est and  upright  fellow  ;  and  though  she  had 
seldom  met  him  in  society,  Mrs.  Scanlan  was 
well  aware  how  highly  Mr.  Oldham  and  all  his 
other  neighbors  respected  him,  and  how  in  that 
cobwebby  little  office  of  his  lay  hidden  half  the 
secrets  of  half  the  families  within  ten  miles 
round  Ditchley. 

He  came  up  to  her  hesitatingly.  "Excuse 
me,  ma'am  ;  taking  great  liberty,  I  know  ;  but 
if  you  had  any  affairs  to  transact  with  poor  Mr. 
Oldham,  and  I  as  his  man  of  business  could 
ass-ass-assist  you — " 

Here  he  became  so  nervous,  and  began  stam- 
mering so  frightfully,  that  Mrs.  Scanlan  had 
time  to  recover  from  her  surprise  and  collect 
her  thoughts  together.  Her  need  was  immi- 
nent. She  must  immediately  consult  some- 
body— and  do  it  herself,  for  her  husband  was 
sure  to  escape  the  painful  thing  if  possible. 
Why  should  she  not  consult  this  man,  who  was 
A  clever  man,  a  good  man,  and  a  lawyer  besides  ? 
And,  after  all,  Mr.  Scanlan's  misfortune  was 
only  a  misfortune,  no  disgrace.  He  had  done  a 
very  foolish  thing,  but  nothing  really  wrong. 

So  she  took  courage  and  accepted  Mr.  Lang- 
home's  civility  so  far  as  to  communicate  to  him 
her  present  strait ;  why  she  had  wished  to  write 
to  Lady  Emma ;  and  why,  even  if  there  were 
no  other  reason,  the  uncertainty  of  the  lady's 
movements  made  it  impracticable.  Yet  she 
could  see  no  other  way  out  of  this  crisis,  and 
her  need  was  imperative. 

"Otherwise,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  bitter 
pride,  "believe  me,  I  never  should  have  com- 
municated my  husband's  private  affairs  in  this 
way." 

"  They  would  not  have  been  private  much 
longer,  Madam,"  said  the  lawyer,  seeming  to 
take  in  the  case  at  a  glance,  and  to  treat  it  as 
a  mere  matter  of  business,  happening  every 
day.  "You  have  no  time  to  lose;  Mr.  Scan- 
lan must  at  once  pay  the  money,  or  the  law 
will  take  its  course.  Shall  I  advance  him  the 
sum  ?     Has  he  any  security  to  give  me  ?" 

He  had  none;  except  his  personal  promise 
to  pay,  which  his  wife  well  knew  was  not  worth 
a  straw.     But  she  could  not  say  so. 

"  I  had  rather,"  she  replied,  "  be  quit  of  debt 
entirely,  in  the  way  I  planned.  Will  you  buy 
my  jewels  instead  of  Lady  Emma  ?     They  are 


worth  more  than  two  hundred  pounds.  You 
could  easily  sell  them,  or  if  you  would  keep 
them  for  me  I  might  be  able  to  repurchase 
them." 

Poor  soul!  she  was  growing  cunning.  As 
she  spoke  she  keenly  investigated  the  lawyer's 
face,  to  find  out  whether  he  thought — had  any 
cause  to  think — she  should  ever  be  rich  en<^ugh 
to  repurchase  them.  But  Mr.  Langhorne's  vis- 
age was  impenetrable. 

"As  you  will,"  he  said;  "it  makes  no  dif- 
ference to  me  ;  I  only  wished  to  oblige  a  neigh- 
bor and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Oldham's.  Will  your 
husband  come  to  me  to-morrow?  Or  you 
yourself?  Perhaps  you  had  better  come  your- 
self." 

"  Yes,  if  you  desire  it,  as  my  husband  will  be 
much  engaged." 

"And  take  my  advice,  Mrs.  Scanlan — say 
nothing  in  Ditchley  about  this  matter  of  the 
bill.  As  we  lawyers  know,  such  things  ai-e 
best  kept  as  quiet  as  possible.  Good -after- 
noon." 

Kind  as  he  was,  the  old  man's  manner  was  a 
little  patronizing,  a  little  dictatorial ;  but  Jose- 
phine did  not  care  for  that.  Her  distress  was 
removed,  for  she  had  jio  doubt  of  getting  her 
husband  to  agre^,  to  this  arrangement ;  so  as 
he  had  the  money,  it  mattered  little  to  him 
how  it  was  obtained.  She  hastened  home,  and 
met  Mr.  Scanlan  at  the  gate.  He  was  coming 
from  an  opposite  quarter,  and  evidently  quite 
ignorani  of  all  that  had  happened  at  the  Rec- 
tory. 

"Well!"  he  said,  eagerly,  "have  you  got  me 
the  money  ?"  having  apparently  quite  forgotten 
how  she  had  meant  to  get  it.  "  Are  things  all 
right?" 

"Yes,  I  have  arranged  it.  But — "  And 
then  she  told  him  the  terrible  blow  which  had 
fallen  upon  poor  Mr.  Oldham. 

"  Good  Heavens !  what  a  dreadful  thing  to 
happen !  If  I  had  thought  it  would  have  hap- 
pened—  But  I  had  no  idea  he  was  ill,  I  as- 
sure you  I  had  not." 

"Did  you  see  him,  then,  this  morning?" 

The  news  affected  Mr.  Scanlan  more  than 
his  wife  had  expected,  seeing  he  always  took 
other  people's  misfortunes  and  griefs  so  lightly. 
He  staggered,  and  ti^rned  very  pale. 

Nobody  seeming  to  know  of  her  husband's 
having  been  at  the  Rectory,  she  concluded  he 
had  not  gone  there ;  it  was  no  new  thing  for 
Edward  Scanlan  to  fail  in  an  appointment,  par- 
ticularly one  that  he  suspected  might  not  be  al- 
together pleasant. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him ;  he  let  me  into  the  house 
himself.     He  had  been  on  the  look-out  for  me 
to  give  me  a  lecture;  which  he  did,  for  one 
whole  hour,  and  very  much  he  irritated  me. . 
Indeed,  we  both  of  us  lost  our  tempers,  I  fear."/ 

"  Edward !  The  doctor  said  some  agitation 
must  have  caused  this ;  surely,  surely — " 

"  It  is  no  use  worrying  me,  Josephine ;  what 
is  done  is  done,  and  can't  be  avoided.  I  don't 
deny  we  had  some  hot  words,  which  I  am  very 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


83 


sorry  for  now ;  but  how  on  earth  was  I  to  know 
he  was  ill  ?     You  can't  blame  me !" 

Yet  he  seemed  conscious  of  being  to  blame, 
for  he  exculpated  himself  with  nervous  eager- 
ness. 

"I  do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  patient 
with  him  as  long  as  ever  I  could,  and  it  was 
difficult ;  for  somehow  he  had  found  out  about 
the  bill,  and  he  was  very  furious.  He  said  my 
conduct  was  'unworthy  a  gentleman  and  a  cler- 
gjman,'  that  I  should  ruin  you  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  similar  nonsense ;  declaring  that  if 
such  a  thing  ever  happened  again  he  would  do 
— something  or  other,  I  can't  tell  what,  for  he 
began  to  mumble  in  his  speech,  and  then — " 

"  And  then  ?  Oh,  husband  !  for  once  in  your 
life  tell  me  exactly  the  truth,  and  the  whole 
truth. " 

"  I  will — only  you  need  not  imply  that  I  am 
a  story-teller.  Don't  lose  your  temper,  Jose- 
phine ;  you  sometimes  do.  Well,  Mr.  Oldham 
lost  his ;  he  grew  red  and  furious,  and  then  his 
words  got  confused,  I  thought  he  was  only  in 
a  passion,  and  that  I  had  better  leave  him  to 
himself;  so  I  went  away  quietly — I  declare 
quite  quietly — slipped  out  of  the  room,  in  short 
— for  soniebody  might  hear  us,  and  that  would 
have  been  so  awkward." 

"And  you  noticed  nothing  more?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  think — I  am  not  sure — but  T 
think,  as  I  shut  the  study  door,  there  was  a 
noise — some  sort  of  a  fall ;  but  I  could  not  go 
back,' you  know,  and  I  did  not  like  to  call  the 
servants ;  they  might  have  found  out  we  had 
been  quarreling." 

"They  might  have  found  out  you  had  been 
quarreling,"  repeated  Josephine,  slowly,  with  a 
strange  contempt  in  her  tone.  "And  this  was, 
when  ?" 

"  About  eleven,  I  fancy." 

"And  he  lay  on  the  floor  till  one — lay  help- 
less and  speechless,  not  a  creature  coming  near 
him !  Poor  old  man  !  And.  you  let  him  lie. 
It  was  your  doing.     You — " 

"Coward"  was  the  word  upon  her  lips;  but 
happily  she  had  enough  sense  of  duty  left  not 
to  utter  it.  She  left  him  to  hear  it  from  the 
voice  of  his  own  conscience.  And  he  did  hear 
it;  for  he  had  a  conscience,  poor  weak  soul 
that  he  was.  He  could  not  keep  from  sin- 
ning ;  yet  when  he  had  sinned  he  always  knew 
it.  This  was  what  made  dealing  with  him  so 
very  difficult.  His  pitiful  contrition  almost  dis- 
armed reproach. 

"Josephine,  if  you  look  at  me  like  that  I 
shall  almost  feel  as  if  I  had  killed  him.  Poor 
Mr.  Oldham !  who  would  have  thought  it  ? 
And  I  know  you  think  it  is  all  my  fault.  You 
are  cruel  to  me,  very  cruel.  You  that  are  so 
tender  to  the  children — to  every  body — are  as 
hard  as  a  stone  to  your  own  husband." 

Was  that  true  ?  Her  conscience  in  turn  half 
accused  her  of  it.  She  tried  to  put  on  an  en- 
couraging smile,  entreating  him  not  to  get  such 
fancies  into  his  head,  but  to  make  the  best  of 
things.     In  vain!     He  threw  himself  on  the 


sofa  in  such  a  paroxysm  of  distress  and  self- 
reproach  that  it  took  all  his  wife's  ettorts  to 
quiet  him  and  prevent  him  from  betraying  him- 
self to  the  household.  And  she  felt  as  much 
as  he  that  nothing  must  be  betrayed.  No  one 
must  know  the  part  which  he  had  had  in  caus- 
ing this  attack  of  Mr.  Oldham's.  That  he  had 
caused  it  was  clear  enough ;  one  of  those  unfor- 
tunate fatalities  which  sometimes  occur,  making 
one  dread  inexpressibly  ever  to  do  an  unkind 
thing  or  delay  doing  a  kind  one,  since,  in  com- 
mon phraseology,  "one  never  knows  what  may 
happen." 

In  this  case  what  had  happened  was  irre- 
trievable. To  publish  it  abroad  would  be  worse 
than  useless,  and  might  seriously  injure  Mr. 
Scanlan;  just  now  especially,  when  so  much 
additional  responsibility  would  fall  upon  him. 
Far  better  that  this  fact — which  nobody  at 
Ditchley  knew — of  his  interview  with  the  rec- 
tor should  be  kept  among  those  sad  secrets  of 
which  every  life  is  more  or  less  full. 

So  Josephine  reasoned  with  her  husband, 
and  soothed  him  as  she  best  could.  Only 
soothed  him ;  for  it  was  hopeless  to  attempt 
more.  To  rouse  him  into  courage — to  stimu- 
late him  into  active  goodness,  for  the  pure  love 
of  goodness,  had  long  since  become  to  her  a 
vain  hope.  Powerless  to  spur  him  on  to  right, 
all  she  could  do  was  to  keep  him  from  wrong — 
to  save  him  from  harming  himself  or  others. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand,  and 
regarding  him  with  a  mournful  pity,  "I  can 
not  let  you  talk  any  more  in  this  strain ;  it 
does  no  good,  and  only  agitates  and  wears  you 
out.  What  has  happened  we  can  not  alter; 
we  must  only  do  our  best  for  the  future.  Re- 
member to-morrow  was  his  Sunday  for  preach- 
ing— ah,  poor  Mr.  Oldham! — and  you  have  no 
sermon  prepared  ;  you  must  begin  it  at  once." 

This  changed  the  current  of  the  curate's 
thoughts,  always  easily  enough  diverted.  He 
caught  at  the  idea  at  once,  and  saw,  too,  what 
an  admirable  opportunity  this  was  for  one  of 
his  displays  of  oratory  in  the  pathetic  line.  He 
brightened  up  immediately. 

"To  be  sure,  I  must  prepare  my  sermon,- 
and  it  ought  to  be  a  specially  good  one.  For 
after  what  has  occurred  half  the  neighborhood 
will  come  to  Ditchley  church  on  Sunday,  and, 
of  course,  they  will  expect  me  to  refer  to  the 
melancholy  event." 

Josephine  turned  away,  sick  at  heart.  "  Oh, 
Edward,  do  not  mention  it ;  or,  if  you  must,  say 
as  little  about  it  as  possible." 

But  she  knew  her  words  were  idle,  her  hus- 
band being  one  of  those  clever  men  who  always 
make  capital  out  of  their  calamities.  So,  after 
sitting  up  half  the  night  to  compose  his  dis- 
course— indeed,  he  partly  wrote  it,  for  there  had 
crept  into  the  pai-ish  of  late  a  slightly  High- 
Church  element  which  objected  to  extempore 
sermons ;  which  element,  while  abusing  it  round- 
ly, the  curate  nevertheless  a  little  succumbed 
to — he  woke  his  wife  about  two  in  the  morning 
to  read  her  the  principal  passages  in  the  ser- 


84 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


mon,  which  he  delivered  afterward  with  great 
success,  and  much  to  the  admiration  of  his  con- 
gregation. His  text  was,  "Boast  not  thyself 
of  to-morrow,"  and  his  pictures  of  all  kinds  of 
terrible  accidents  and  unforeseen  misfortunes 
were  most  edifying,  thrilling  all  Ditchley  with 
horror,  or  moving  it  with  pathos.  He  ended 
by  reverting  to  their  beloved  rector  and  his  sud- 
den and  sad  illness ;  which  he  did  in  a  manner 
so  tender,  so  affecting,  that  there  was  scarcely 
a  dry  eye  in  the  church.  Except  one;  and 
that,  I  am  much  afraid,  was  Mrs.  Scanlan's. 


CHAPTER  X. 


There  is  5,  proverb  which  sometimes  seems 
amazingly  true,  that  "  Heaven  takes  care  of 
fools  and  drunkards."  Can  it  be  for  their  own 
sake,  or  is  it  out  of  pity  for  those  belonging 
to  them,  to  whom  they  serve  as  a  sort  of 
permanent  discipline — the  horse-hair  shirt  and 
nightly  scourge  which  are  supposed  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  manufacture  of  saints?  And  it  is 
one  of  the  most  mysterious  lessons  of  life  that 
such  often  is  the  case ;  that  out  of  the  wicked- 
ness of  one  half  of  the  world  is  evolved  the 
noble  self-devotedness  of  the  other  half.  Why 
this  should  be  we  know  not,  and  sometimes  in 
our  ignorance  it  makes  us  very  angry ;  but  so 
it  is,  and  we  can  not  help  seeing  it. 

Of  a  truth,  whether  he  himself  thought  so  or 
not.  Providence  had  all  his  life  taken  pretty 
good  care  of  EdAvard  Seanlan.  His  "  good 
luck"  followed  him  still.  When,  on  Mr.  Old- 
ham's private  affairs  being  laid  open  to  his  law- 
yer and  doctor — who  were  also,  fortunately, 
the  two  church-wardens  of  the  parish — it  was 
discovered  that  the  rector  had  been  paying  his 
curate  for  salary  the  whole  amount  of  the  small 
living  of  Ditchley ;  still  no  objections  were 
made.  His  was  considered  so  very  peculiar  a 
case  that  the  laborer  was  found  worthy  of  his 
hire,  and  it  was  cheerfully  continued  to  him. 
Arrangements  were  made  whereby  the  curate 
should  take  the  entire  duty  of  the  parish,  until, 
at  Mr.  Oldham's  death,  the  living  should  fall 
in ;  when — as  the  patronage  of  it  happened  by 
a  curious  chance  to  belong  to  Lady  Emma's 
husf)and,  Mr.  Lascelles — there  was  exceeding 
probability  of  its  being  bestowed  upon  Mr. 
Seanlan.  At  least,  so  said  Dr.  Waters  confi- 
dentially to  Mrs.  Seanlan,  and  she  listened  silent- 
ly, with  that  nervous,  pained  expression  which 
always  came  upon  her  anxious  face  when  people 
talked  to  her  about  her  future  or  her  children's. 

But  for  the  present  things  went  smoothly 
enough  both  with  her  and  them  ;  more  so  than 
for  a  long  time.  Impelled  by  his  wife's  influ- 
ence, grateful  for  the  ease  with  which  she  had 
got  him  out  of  his  money  difficulty  and  never 
reproached  him  with  it,  or  else  touched  by  some 
conscience-stings  of  his  own  concerning  Mr. 
Oldham,  at  the  time  of  the  rector's  illness  Mr. 
Seanlan  behaved  so  well,  was  so  active,  so  sym- 
pathetic, so  kind,  that  the  whole  parish  was 


loud  in  his  praise.  His  sinking  popularity  rose 
to  its  pristine  level.  All  the  world  was  amia- 
bly disposed  toward  him,  and  toward  his  hard- 
worked,  uncomplaining  wife.  In  the  general 
opening-up  of  things  people  found  out  Mrs. 
Scanlan's  private  relations  with  Priscilla  Nunn. 
The  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  who  had  wonV\ 
her  mended  lace  and  bought  her  beautiful  mus- 
lin embroideiy,  so  far  from  looking  down  upon 
her,  rather  honored  her  for  it ;  and,  with  fee 
warm,  good  heart  of  country  gentlewomen, 
patronized  Priscilla's  shop  till  Mrs.  Seanlan 
had  more  work  than  she  could  do. 

Also,  when  another  secret  mysteriously  came 
to  light,  probably  through  the  curate's  own  gar- 
rulousness,  and  it  was  whispered  abroad  that 
Mr.  Seanlan  had  greatly  hampered  himself  by 
going  surety  for  a  friend — a  most  talented,  ami- 
able, but  temporarily  unfortunate  friend  (which 
was  the  poetical  version  that  reached  Wren's 
Nest) — the  sympathy  of  these  dear  innocent 
country  people  rose  to  such  a  height  that  when 
somebody  proposed  subscribing  a  purse  as  a 
delicate  testimony  of  their  respect  for  their 
curate,  it  was  soon  filled  to  the  amount  of  sixty 
pounds.  Thereto  was  added  a  gown  and  cas- 
sock, a  Bible  and  Prayer-book— all  of  which 
were  presented  to  Mr.  Seanlan  with  great  eclat. 
And  he  acknowledged  the  gift  in  an  address  so 
long  and  effective  that,  yielding  to  general  en- 
treaty, he  had  it  printed — at  his  own  expense 
of  course — and  distributed  gratis  throughout 
the  county. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Seanlan  sat  at  home  at 
Wren's  Nest,  sewing  at  her  lace  and  embroid- 
ery more  diligently  than  ever,  for  it  was  not 
unnecessary.  All  these  glories  without  doors 
did  not  provide  any  additional  comforts  within 
— at  least  none  that  were  perceptible — so  great 
was  the  increase  of  expenses.  Dazzled  by 
the  excitement  of  his  new  position,  his  vanity 
tickled,  his  sense  of  importance  increased  by 
being  now  "  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed"  in  the 
large  and  increasing  parish  of  Ditchley,  Mr. 
Seanlan  launched  out  more  and  more  every 
day,  and  was  every  day  less  amenable  to  his 
wife's  gentle  reasonings.  Not  that  he  openly 
contradicted  her :  indeed,  when  differences  oc- 
curred, he  continually  allowed  that  her  way  was 
the  right  way ;  but  he  never  followed  it,  and 
never  lacked  excuses  for  not  following  it — 
the  good  of  the  parish,  the  good  of  the  family, 
his  position  as  a  clergyman,  and  so  on.  He 
was  not  honest  enough  to  say  he  did  a  thing 
because  he  liked  to  do  it,  but  always  found 
some  roundabout  reason  why  it  was  advisable 
to  do  it ;  at  which,  finally,  Josephine  only 
came  to  smile  without  replying  one  single  word. 
Women  learn  in  time,  out  of  sheer  hopeless- 
ness, these  melancholy  hypocrisies. 

Meanwhile  the  curate's  money  "  burned  a 
hole  in  his  pocket,"  as  Bridget  expressed  it — 
a  bigger  hole  every  day ;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  his  wife's  earnings,  the  family  must  often 
have  run  very  short — the  family,  which,  be- 
sides the  younger  four,  comprised  now  a  great 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


85 


tall  youth,  almost  a  young  man,  and  a  girl, 
small  and  pale,  plain  and  uninteresting — but 
yet  a  growing-up  maiden,  on  the  verge  of  wo- 
manhood— more  of  a  woman,  in  precocity  of 
heart  and  feeling,  than  many  of  the  young  la- 
dies of  Ditchley  now  "come  out,"  and  even 
engaged  to  be  married.  But  there  was  no 
coming  out  and  no  sweet  love  episode  for  poor 
little  Adrienne.  Her  mother,  looking  at  her, 
felt  sure  she  would  be  an  old  maid,  and  was 
glad  she  saw  no  one  she  was  likely  to  care  for, 
so  as  to  wound  her  tender  heart  with  any  un- 
fortunate attachment ;  for  the  child  was  of  an 
imaginative  nature,  just  one  of  those  girls  who 
are  apt  to  fall  in  love — innocently  as  hope- 
lessly ;  and  never  get  over  it  as  long  as  they 
live.  So,  if  she  ever  thought  of  the  matter  at 
all,  Josephine  was  thankful  that  her  girl,  shut 
up  in  her  quiet  obscurity,  was  safe  so  far. 

Ce'sar  was  diflFerent.  About  him  she  had  no 
end  of  anxieties.  He  was  a  manly,  precocious 
boy ;  full  of  fun,  keen  in  his  enjoyment  of  life ; 
rough  a  little,  though  his  innate  gentlemanhood 
kept  him  from  ever  being  coarse.  Still,  in 
spite  of  her  care,  his  frank,  free,  boyish  nature 
inclined  him  to  be  social,  and  he  caught  the 
tone  of  his  associates.  He  was  growing  up  to 
manhood  with  a  strong  provincial  accent,  and 
a  gauche  provincial  manner,  much  more  like 
the  shop-boys,  bankers'  clerks,  and  lawyers' 
apprentices  of  Ditchley,  than  the  last  descend- 
ant of  the  long  race  of  De  Bougainville. 

It  might  have  been  a  weakness,  but  she 
clung  to  it  still — this  poor  woman,  to  whom  the 
glories  of  her  ancestry  were  now  a  mere  dream 

.  — her  love  of  the  noble  line  which  had  upheld 
for  centuries  that  purest  creed  of  aristocracy — 
that  "all  the  sons  were  brave,  and  all  the 
daughters  virtuous."  Now,  indeed,  it  was  lit- 
tle more  than  a  fairy  tale,  which  she  told  to 
her  own  sons  and  daughters  in  the  vague  hope 
of  keeping  alive  in  them  the  true  spirit  of  no- 
bility which  had  so  shone  out  in  their  fore- 
fathers. '  Nevertheless,  she  felt  bitterly  how  cir- 
cumstances were  dead  against  her  poor  chil- 
dren, and  how  it  would  be  almost  a  miracle  if 
she  could  keep  their  heads  above  water,  and 
bring  them  up  to  be  any  thing  like  gentlemen 
and  gentlewomen. 

Her  husband  seemed  very  indifferent  to  the 
matter.  Indeed,  after  listening  for  some  time, 
very  impatiently,  to  her  arguments  that  they 
should  make  some  sacrifice  in  order  to  send 
Ce'sar  to  college,  he  negatived  the  whole  ques- 
tion. It  did  not  affect  him  personally,  and 
therefore  assumed  but  small  dimensions  in  his 
mind.  He  seldom  saw  Cdsar  except  on  Sun- 
days, when  it  rather  annoyed  him  to  have  such 
a  big  fellow,  taller  than  himself,  calling  him 
father.  As  he  said  one  day  to  Josephine,  "it 
made  one  look  so  old." 

And  all  this  while  the  poor  old  rector  lay 
in  his  shut-up  room,  or  was  dragged  slowly  up 

»  and  down  the  paths  of  his  pretty  garden,  a 
melancholy  spectacle,  which  gradually  the  peo- 
ple about  him  and  his  sympathizing  parishion- 


ers grew  so  accustomed  to  that  it  ceased  to 
affect  them.  Satisfied  that  he  had  every  alle- 
viation of  his  condition  that  wealth  could  sup- 
ply, they  left  him  to  be  taken  care  of  by  his 
faithful  old  servants  until  should  come  the  hap- 
py release ;  at  first  looked  forward  to  continu- 
ally, but  gradually  becoming  less  imminent. 
Even  Lady  Emma — his  most  affectionate  and 
nearest  friend,  though  only  a  third  or  fourth 
cousin — after  coming  from  Vienna  to  Ditchley, 
and  staying  a  few  days,  returned,  scarcely  ex- 
pecting to  see  him  alive  again.  Yet  he  lin- 
gered— one  year — a  year  and  a  half,  in  much 
the  same  state ;  partially  conscious,  it  was  sup- 
posed, but  able  neither  to  speak  nor  to  move. 
He  ate,  drank,  and  slept,  however — passively, 
but  peacefully  as  a  child ;  his  eyes  were'^often 
as  sharp  and  as  bright  as  ever,  and  the  work- 
ings of  his  countenance  showed  considerable 
intelligence,  but  otherwise  his  life  was  a  total 
blank.  Death  itself  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
him. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  went  to  see  him  every  Sunday 
— her  leisure  day,  and  her  husband's  busiest  | 
one,  which  fact  made  less  apparent  the  inevi- 
table necessity  which  she  soon  discovered,  that 
she  must  pay  her  visits  alone.  From  the  first 
appearance  of  his  curate  at  the  rector's  bed- 
side, Mr.  Oldham  had  testified  so  strong  a  re- 
pugnance to  his  company  that  it  was  necessary 
to  invent  all  sorts  of  excuses — thankfully  enough 
received  by  Mr.  Scanlan — to  keep  him  away. 
And  so  the  formal  condolatory  visits,  and  sick- 
room prayers — spiritual  attentions  which  Mr. 
Scanlan  paid,  because  he  thought  people  would 
expect  him  to  pay,  to  his  rector — were  tacitly 
set  aside,  or  took  place  only  at  the  longest  in- 
tervals that  were  consistent  with  appearances. 

However,  in  all  societies  he  testified  the  ut- 
most feeling,  assured  the  parishioners  that  his 
"dear  and  excellent  friend"  was  quite  "pre- 
pared." Once,  when  this  question  was  put  to 
Mrs.  Sc^anlan,  she  was  heard  to  answer  "that 
if  not  prepared  already,  she  thought  it  was 
rather  late  to  begin  preparations  for  death 
now ;  and  that  for  her  part  she  considered  liv- 
ing was  quite  as  important,  and  as  diflicult,  as 
dying."  Which  remark  was  set  down  as  one  of 
the  "  extraordinary"  things  Mrs.  Scanlan  some- 
times said — confirming  the  doubt  whether  she 
was  quite  the  pleasant  person  that  she  used  to  be. 

Her  pleasantness — such  as  it  was — she  kept 
for  Mr.  Oldham's  sick-chamber ;  where  the  old 
man  lay  in  his  sad  life-in-death  all  day  long. 
He  was  very  patient,  ordinarily ;  suffered  no 
pain ;  and  perhaps  his  long,  lonely  life  made 
him  more  submissive  to  that  perpetual  solitude, 
which  for  him  had  begun  even  before  the  im- 
prisonment of  the  grave.  He  seemed  always 
glad  to  see  Mrs.  Scanlan.  She  talked  to  him, 
though  not  much — it  was  such  a  mournful  mon- 
ologue to  carry  on — still  he  would  look  inter- 
ested, and  nod  his  head,  and  try  to  mumble 
out  his  uncertain  words  in  reply.  She  read  to 
him,  which  he  always  enjoyed  immensely.  She 
too ;  since  it  was  the  first  time  for  many  years 


86 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


JOSEPUINE  AND  TUK  EEOTOB. 


that  she  had  had  leisure  for  reading,  or  con- 
sidered it  right  to  make  for  herself  that  leisure. 
But  now  she  did  it  not  for  herself;  and  it  was 
astonishing  how  many  books  she  got  through, 
and  what  a  keen  enjoyment  she  had  of  them. 
And  sometimes  she  would  simply  bring  her 
work  and  sit  beside  him,  telling  him  any  thing 
which  came  into  her  head — the  news  of  the 
parish,  her  children's  doings  and  sayings ;  to 
which  latter  he  always  listened  with  pleasure; 
and  she  had  now  no  hesitation  in  talking  about 
them.  Whatever  the  future  might  be,  it  was 
settled  by  this  time.  Pride  and  delicacy  were 
alike  needless  :  the  poor  helpless  old  man  could 
alter  nothing  now.  So  she  lay  passive  on  her 
oars  and  tided  down  with  the  stream.  After 
Mr.  Oldham's  illness  there  came  a  season  of 
unwonted  peace  for  poor  Mrs.  Scanlan. 

But  it  was  a  false  peace — impossible  to  last 
very  long. 

There  is  another  proverb — I  fear  I  am  fond 
of  proverbs — "  Set  a  beggar  on  horseback  and 
he  will  ride  to  the  devil."  Now,  without  lik- 
ening Mr.  Scanlan  to  a  beggar,  or  accusing  him 
of  that  dangerous  equestrian  exercise,  there  is 
no  doubt  he  was  one  of  the  many  men  who  are 
much  safer  walking  on  foot.  That  is,  too  great 
liberty  was  not  good  for  him.  He  did  better 
as  the  poor  curate — limited  by  his  prescribed 
line  of  duties,  and  steadied  by  the  balance- 
weight  of  his  sagacious  old  rector — than  when 
he  was  left  to  himself,  responsible  to  nobody, 
and  with  the  whole  parish  on  his  hands.  He 
was  not  a  good  man  of  business,  being  neither 


accurate  nor  methodical.  Clever  he  might  be ; 
but  a  clever  man  is  not  necessarily  a  wise  man. 
Ere  long  he  began  doing  a  good  many  foolish 
things. 

Especially  with  reference  to  one  favorite  hete 
noire  he  had — Puseyism,  as  it  began  to  be  call- 
ed. A  clergyman  with  these  proclivities  had 
settled  in  the  next  parish,  and  attempted  vari- 
ous innovations  —  choir-singing,  altar-decora- 
ting, daily  services — which  had  greatly  attract- 
ed the  youth  of  Ditchley.  They  ran  after  the 
High-Church  vicar,  just  as  once  their  prede- 
cessors had  run  after  the  young  Evangelical 
curate,  which  the  old  Evangelical  curate  did 
not  like  at  all. 

Mr.  Scanlan's  congregation  fell  from  him, 
which  irritated  his  small  vanity  to  the  last  de- 
gree. He  tried  various  expedients  to  lure  them 
back — a  new  organ,  a  Dorcas  Society,  a  fancy 
bazar — all  those  religious  dissipations  which 
often  succeed  so  well  in  a  country  community 
which  happens  to  have  plenty  of  money  and 
nothing  to  do — ^but  the  errant  sheep  would  not 
be  recalled.  At  length,  maddened  by  his  rival's 
successes,  and  by  the  beautiful  new  church  tlmt 
was  being  built  for  him,  a  brilliant  thouCit 
struck  Mr.  Scanlan  that  he  would  try  building 
too.  The  old  school-house,  coeval  with  tlie 
parish  church  of  Ditchley,  wanted  repairs  sad- 
ly. He  proposed  to  pull  it  down  and  erect  a 
new  one,  of  commodious  size  and  Gothic  de- 
sign, a  great  deal  finer  and  more  expensive 
than  the  obnoxious  church. 

This  idea  restored  all  his  old  animation  and 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


87 


sanguine  energy.  He  brought  down  an  archi- 
tect from  London,  and  went  round  the  parish 
with  him,  plan  in  hand,  collecting  subscriptions. 
And  Ditchley  still  keeping  up  its  old  spirit  of 
generosity,  these  came  in  so  fast  that  a  goodly 
sum  was  soon  laid  up  in  the  Ditchley  bank,  in 
the  combined  names  of  the  architect  and  the 
treasurer,  who  was,  of  course,  the  Reverend 
Edward  Scanlan.  A  very  simple  transaction, 
which,  of  course,  nobody  inquired  into;  and 
even  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  scarcely  cognizant  of 
the  fact.  Indeed,  her  husband  had  rather 
kept  her  in  the  dark  as  to  the  whole  matter ; 
it  pleased  him  to  do  it  all  himself,  and  to  say 
with  a  superior  air  that  "women  knew  nothing 
of  business." 

But  presently,  top-heavy  with  his  success,  he 
became  a  little  difficult  to  deal  with  at  home, 
and  prone  to  get  into  petty  squabbles  abroad — 
womanish  squabbles,  if  I  may  malign  my  sex 
by  using  the  adjective.  But  I  have  seen  as 
much  spite,  as  much  smallness,  among  men  as 
among  any  women,  only  they  were  men  who 
had  lost  all  true  manliness  by  becoming  con- 
ceited egotists,  wrapped  up  in  self,  and  blind 
to  any  merit  save  their  own.  When  these 
happen  to  be  fathers  of  families,  how  the  do- 
mestic bark  is  ever  guided  with  such  a  steers- 
man at  the  helm,  God  knows !  Nothing  saves 
it  from  utter  shipwreck,  unless  another  hand 
quietly  takes  the  rudder,  and,  strong  in  wo- 
man's invisible  strength,  though  with  stream- 
ing eyes  and  bleeding  heart,  steers  the  vessel 
on. 

So  had  done,  or  had  tried  to  do,  against  many 
cross  currents  and  dangerous  shoals,  poor  Jose- 
phine Scanlan.  But  now  her  difficulties  in- 
creased so  much  that  sometimes  her  numbed 
hand  almost  failed  in  its  task ;  the  very  stars 
grew  dim  above  her;  every  thing  seemed 
wrapped  in  a  dim  fog,  and  she  herself  as  far 
from  land  as  ever. 

Hitherto,  though,  as  before  hinted,  Mr.  Scan- 
lan had  hung  up  his  fiddle  at  his  own  door,  he 
had  always  played  satisfactorily  at  his  neigh- 
bors'. But  now  he  did  not  get  on  quite  so  well 
with  them  as  formerly.  There  broke  out  in  him 
a  certain  quarrelsomeness,  supposed  by  Saxons 
to  be  a  peculiarly  Hibernian  quality,  and  per- 
haps it  is,  with  the  lowest  type  of  Irish  charac- 
ter. He  was  always  getting  into  hot  water,  and 
apparently  enjoying  the  bath,  as  if  it  washed 
away  a  dormant  irritability,  which  his  wife  had 
never  noticed  in  him  before.  Now  she  did,  and 
Wondered  at  it  a  little,  till  she  grew  accustomed 
to  it,  as  to  many  other  faults  in  him,  which,  like 
notches  in  the  bark  of  a  tree,  grew  larger  and 
uglier  year  by  year. 

So  large  that  the  children  themselves  no- 
ticed them.  It  was  useless  to  keep  up  the  high 
ideal  of  paternal  perfection,  which  is  the  salva- 
tion of  a  family ;  the  blessed  doctrine  that  the 
father  can  do  no  wrong ;  that  he  must  be  obeyed, 
because  he  would  never  exact  any  obedience 
that  was  not  for  the  child's  good;  must  be 
loved,  because  he  loves  so  dearly  every  member 


of  his  household.  Indeed,  these  young  people 
sharply  criticised,  secretly  or  openly,  their  fa- 
ther's motives  and  actions,  and  continually 
made  out  of  them*  excuses  for  their  own  short- 
comings. "Oh,  papa  says  so-and-so,  and  no- 
body blames  him  ;"  "Papa  told  me  to  do  such 
and  such  things,  so  of  course  I  must  do  them ;" 
until  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  almost  driven  wild  by 
the  divided  duty  of  wife  and  mother — a  position 
so  maddening  that  I  should  think  a  woman 
could  hardly  keep  her  senses  in  it,  save  by 
steadily  fixing  her  eyes  upward,  on  a. higher 
duty  than  either,  that  which  she  owes  to  her 
God.  But,  for  many  a  year.  He  who  reveals 
Himself  by  the  title  of  "  the  Father,"  and  the 
promise,  "I  will  be  an  husband  unto  you,"  had 
veiled  Himself  from  her  in  the  clouds  and  dark- 
ness generated  by  her  mortal  lot,  which  was 
such  a  daily  mockery  of  both  these  names. 

She  herself  was  cruelly  conscious  how  much 
she  was  changed,  and  how  rapidly  changing; 
growing  callous  to  pain,  indifferent  to  pleasure, 
even  that  of  her  children  ;  neglectful  of  her  ap- 
pearance and  theirs ;  allowing  her  household 
to  sink  into  those  untidy  ways,  so  abhorrent  to 
inbred  refinement,  which  mark  the  last  de- 
spondency of  poverty.  The  bright  energy  with 
which  she  used  to  preach  to  Bridget  and  the 
children  on  the  subject  of  clean  faces  and  clean 
clothes,  order,  neatness,  and  prettiness — since 
no  narrowness  of  means  warranted  a  family  in 
living  in  a  daily  muddle,  like  pigs  in  a  sty — 
all  this  was  quite  gone.  She  rarely  complain- 
ed and  never  scolded.  Toward  her  husband, 
above  all,  she  was  falling  into  that  passive  state 
of  indifference,  sadder  than  either  grief  or  an- 
ger. She  took  little  interest  in  his  affairs,  and 
seldom  asked  him  any  questions  about  them. 
Where  was  the  use  of  it,  when  she  could  place 
no  reliance  on  his  answers  ? 

Oftentimes,  with  a  bitter  joy,  she  thought 
how  much  wiser  Mr.  Oldham  had  been  than 
she  in  pledging  to  keep  the  secret;  and  how 
well  it  was  that  she  still  retained  it ;  if,  indeed, 
there  were  any  secret  to  retain.  That,  until  the 
rector's  death,  she  could  not  possibly  discover. 
He  must  have  made  his  will,  but  in  whose  pos- 
session it  was,  or  whether  any  body  was  aware 
of  its  contents,  she  knew  no  more  than  that  oft- 
en appealed  to  personage,  the  man  in  the  moon, 
who  seemed  to  have  as  much  influence  over 
her  destiny  as  any  thing  else,  or  any  body  ei- 
ther, in  heaven  or  earth.  She  felt  herself  drift- 
ing along  in  blind  chance,  not  knowing  from 
day  to  day  what  would  happen,  or  what  she 
ought  to  do. 

Often,  when  returning  home  from  her  even- 
ing visits  to  Mr.  Oldham,  she  wished  she  had 
never  heard  from  him  one  word  about  his  mon- 
ey or  its  destination — that  she  had  struggled 
on  patiently,  as  a  poor  curate's  wife,  and  made 
her  boys  little  butchers  or  bakers,  and  her  girls 
milliners  or  school-teachers,  to  earn  an  honest 
livelihood  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow.  Then  " 
again,  in  her  passionate  ambition  for  them,  she 
felt  that  to  realize  this  fortune,  to  give  them  all 


88 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


they  wanted  and  make  them  all  she  desired 
them  to  be,  she  would  have  "sold  her  soul  to 
the  devil,"  had  that  personage  appeared  to  her, 
as  he  did  to  Doctor  Faustus  and  other  tempted 
souls.  She  could  understand  thoroughly  the 
old  wives'  tales  about  persons  bewitched  or 
possessed  ;  sometimes  she  felt  Satan  almost  as 
near  to  her  as  if  he  had  started  out  of  a  bush 
on  the  twilight  common,  and  confronted  her  in 
the  visible  likeness  of  the  Prince  of  the  power 
of  the  air — hoofs,  horns,  tail,  and  all. 

Thus  time  went  on,  and  it  was  already  two 
years  since  Mr.  Oldliam's  attack ;  yet  still  no 
kind  angel  of  death  had  appeared  to  break  with 
«  merciful  touch  his  fetters  of  flesh,'  and  lift  him, 
a  liappy  new-born  soul,  out  of  this  dreary  world 
into  the  world  everlasting.  And  still  to  the 
much-tried  mother  remained  unsolved  the  mys- 
tery of  life,  more  difficult,  as  she  had  once  tru- 
ly said,  than  dying ;  and  she  knew  not  from 
week  to  week  either  what  she  ought  to  do,  or 
how  she  should  do  it — above  all,  with  regard 
to  her  children. 

They  were  growing  up  fast ;  Cesar  being 
now  a  tall  youth  of  sixteen ;  very  handsome, 
with  the  high  aquiline  features  and  large-limb- 
ed frame  of  his  Norman  ancestors ;  not  clever 
exactly — Louis  was  the  clever  one  among  the 
boys — but  sensible,  clear-headed,  warm-heart- 
ed ;  with  a  keen  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
which  he  acted  upon  in  a  somewhat  hard  and 
fierce  fashion,  not  uncommon  in  youth.  But 
in  this  his  mother  rather  encotiraged  than  con- 
demned him.  Any  harshness  of  principle  was 
better  to  her  than  that  fatal  laxity  which  had 
been,  and  continued  to  be,  the  bane  of  her  do- 
mestic life. 

Cesar  and  his  father  were  cast  in  such  a  to- 
tally opposite  mould,  that,  as  years  advanced, 
they  naturally  divided  further  and  further. 
Both  were  very  much  out  of  the  housd,  and, 
when  they  met  within  it,  they  kept  a  polite 
neutrality.  Still  sometimes  domestic  jars  oc- 
curred ;  and  one  great  source  of  irritation  was 
the  father's  extreme  anxiety  that  his  son's  school- 
^  days  should  end,  and  he  should  begin  to  earn  his 
own  living.  Of  course,  as  he  reasoned,  a  poor 
curate's  sons  could  not  expect  their  father  to  do 
more  than  give  them  a  respectable  education. 
The  rest  they  must  do  for  themselves. 

"Yes,"  their  mother  would  say,  when  the 
question  was  argued,  and  say  no  more — how 
could  she  ?  Only  she  contrived  to  stave  off  the 
evil  day  as  long  as  possible ;  and  keep  Cesar 
Steadily  at  his  studies  in  the  grammar-school, 
which  was  a  very  good  school  in  its  way,  till 
something  turned  up. 

At  last,  unfortunately,  something  did  turn 
up.  Mr.  Scanlan  came  home  one  night  in  high 
satisfaction ;  the  manager  of  Ditchley  bank  hav- 
ing offered  to  take  Cesar  as  junior  clerk  with  a 
salary  of  a  few  shillings  a  week. 

Josephine  stood  aghast.  Not  that  she  ob- 
jected to  her  boy's  earning  his  living,  but  she 
wished  him  first  to  get  an  education  that  wduld 
fit  him  for  doing  it  thoroughly  and  well,  and 


make  him  equal  for  any  chances  of  the  future, 
particularly  that  future  to  which  she  still  clung, 
as  at  least  a  possibility.  But  here,  as  on  every 
hand,  she  was  stopj)^  by  her  sore  secret. 

"It  is  a  kind  offer,"  said  she,  hesitatingly, 
"  and  perhaps  we  may  think  of  it  when — when 
the  boy  has  quite  finished  his  education — " 

"  Finished  his  education !  What  more  edu- 
cation can  he  get  ?  You  surely  don't  keep  up 
that  silly  notion  of  his  going  to  college  ?  Why, 
that  is  only  for  lads  whose  parents  are  wealthy 
— heirs  to  estates,  and  so  on." 

"  What  does  my  boy  say  himself  about  the 
matter  ?  He  is  old  enough  to  have  a  voice  in 
his  own  future."  And  Josephine  turned  to  her 
son,  who  stood  sullen  and  silent. 

"  No  ;  children  should  never  decide  for  them- 
selves," said  Mr.  Scanlan,  harshly.  "You  are 
talking,  my  dear  wife,  as  if  we  were  people  of 
property,  when  in  our  circumstances  the  princi- 
pal object  ought  to  be  to  get  the  boys  off  our 
hands  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  Get  our  boys  off  our  hands !" 

"  Exactly ;  let  them  maintain  themselves  and 
cease  to  be  a  burden  on  their  father.  Why,  that 
big  fellow  there  eats  as  much  as  a  man,  and  his 
tailor's  bill  is  nearly  as  heavy  as  my  own.  I 
stibuld  be  only  too  glad  to  see  him  paying  it 
himself." 

"  So  should  I,  father,"  said  the  boy,  bitterly. 

"Then  why  don't  you  jump  at  once  at  the 
chance,  and  say  you  will  go  to  the  bank  ?" 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go  ?  Answer  honestly,  my 
son.     Would  you  like  to  be  a  bank  clerk  ?" 

"No,  mother,  I  shouldn't,"  said  Cesar,  stur- 
dily. "  And  what's  more,  as  I  told  papa  while 
we  were  walking  home,  I  won't  be  one,  and 
nobody  shall  make  me." 

"  I'll  make  you  I"  cried  Mr.  Scanlan,  furious- 

Cesar  curled  his  lips  a  little — "  I  think,  fa- 
ther, if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  attempt  to  try." 

There  was  nothing  disrespectful  in  the  boy's 
manner ;  if  it  expressed  any  thing,  it  was  sim- 
ple indifference ;  Cesar  evidently  did  not  think 
it  worth  while  to  quarrel  with  his  father ;  and, 
tamed  by  the  perfectly  courteous  tone,  and 
perhaps  scarcely  hearing  the  words,  the  fa- 
ther seemed  to  hesitate  at  quarreling  with  his 
son.  They  stood  face  to  face,  Ce'sar  leaning 
over  his  mother's  chair,  and  she  clasping  secret- 
ly with  a  nervous,  warning  clasp  the  hand  which 
lie  had  laid  upon  her  shoulder.  A  father  and 
son  more  unlike  each  other  could  hardly  be. 
Such  differences  nature  does  make,  and  often 
the  very  circumstances  of  education  and  early 
association  that  would  seem  to  create  similari- 
ty prevent  it.     One  extreme  produces  another. 

"Cesar,"  whispered  his  mother,  "you  must 
not  speak  in  that  way  to  papa  and  me.  Tell 
us  plainly  what  you  desire,  and  we  will  do  our 
best  to  accomplish  it." 

"Papa  knows  my  mind.  I  told  it  to  him 
this  evening,"  said  the  boy,  carelessly.  "I'm 
ready  to  eai-n  my  living ;  but  I  won't  earn  it 
among  those  snobs  in  the  Ditchley  bank." 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


"  How  snobs  ?  They  are  all  the  sons  of  re- 
spectable people,  and  very  gentlemanly-looking 
young  fellows, "  said  the  father.  ' '  Quite  as  well 
dressed  as  you." 

"  Very  likely ;  I  don't  care  much  for  my 
clothes.  But  I  do  care  for  having  to  do  with  gen- 
tlemen ;  and  they're  not  gentlemen.  Mamma 
wouldn't  think  they  were." 

"Why  not?"     > 

"They  drink;  they  smoke;  they  swear; 
they  idle  about  and  play  billiards.  I  don't  like 
them,  and  I  won't  be  mixed  up  with  them. 
Find  me  something  else,  some  honest,  hard 
work,  and  I'll  do  it ;  but  that  I  won't  do,  and 
so  I  told  you." 

And  Cesar,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  fixed  his  honest  eyes — his  mother's  eyes 
— full  on  "the  author  of  his  being,"  as  poets 
and  moralists  would  say — implying  in  that  fact 
a  claim  to  every  duty,  every  sacrifice.  True 
enough  when  the  author  of  a  child's  existence 
has  likewise  been  the  origin  of  every  thing  that 
ennobles,  and  brightens,  and  makes  existence 
yaluable.     Not  otherwise. 

"My  son,"  said  his  mother,  anxiously  inter- 
fering, "how  comes  it  that  you  know  so  much 
about  these  clerks  at  the  bank?  You  have 
never  been  there  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  have;  many  times,  on  papa's 
messages." 

"  What  messages  ?" 

Cesar  hesitated. 

"I  meant  to  have  told  you,  my  dear,"  said 
his  father,  hastily,  "only  it  concerned  a  matter 
in  which  you  take  so  little  interest.  And  it  is 
quite  separate  from  your  bank  account — and 
you  know  I  am  very  glad  you  should  draw  and 
cash  all  our  checks  yourself,  because  then  you 
know  exactly  how  the  money  goes." 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  said  Mrs.  Scan- 
Ian,  wearily.  "Money,  money — nothing  but 
money.  I  am  sick  of  the  very  sound  of  the 
word." 

"  So  am  I  too,  my  dearest  wife ;  and  there- 
fore I  never  mention  it.  These  were  merely 
parish  matters — money  required  in  the  school, 
which  I  have  once  or  twice  sent  C^sar  to  get 
for  me." 

"  Once  or  twice,  father !  Why,  I  have  been 
to  the  bank  every  week  these  two  months  !  I 
have  fetched  out  for  you-j— one — two,  let  me 
see,  it  must  be  nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds." 

"  You  are  an  excellent  arithmetician ;  would 
have  made  your  fortune  as  a  banker,"  said  the 
father;  and  patted  his  son  on  the  shoulder  in 
a  conciliatory  manner.  "But  do  not  bother 
your  mother  with  all  this.  As  I  told  you,  she 
is  a  woman,  and  you  and  I  are  men ;  we  ought 
not  to  trouble  her  with  any  business  matters;" 

"  No,  I'll  never  trouble  her  more  than  I  can 
help,"  said  the  boy,  fondly.  "But  indeed, 
mamma  asked  me  a  direct  question,  and  to  put 
her  otF  would  have  been  as  bad  as  telling  her  a 
lie." 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  said  Josephine,  with  a  gasp, 


almost  of  agony.  How  was  she  ever  to  steer 
her  course?  how  keep  this  lad  in  the  right  way 
— the  straight  and  narrow  road — while  his  fa- 
ther- 
Mr.  Scanlan  looked  exceedingly  uncomfort- 
able. He  avoided  the  countenances  of  both 
wife  and  son.  He  began  talking  raj)idly  and 
inconsequently — about  the  school-building  and 
the  responsibility  it  was,  and  the  great  deal  he 
had  to  do,  with  nobody  to  help  him. 

"For,  my  dear,  as  a  clergyman's  wife,  you 
know  you  are  no  help  to  me  whatever.  You 
never  visit ;  you  take  no  position  in  the  par- 
ish ;  you  inquire  about  nothing ;  you  hear  no- 
thing." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear,"  said  Josephine, 
rousing  herself,  with  a  faint  dread  that  she  had 
let  matters  go  too  far,  that  there  were  things  it 
would  be  advisable  she  should  hear.  "  For  in- 
stance, this  money  the  boy  spoke  of — I  suppose 
it  was  wanted  for  the  school-house,  to  pay  the 
architect  or  builder.  Have  you,  then,  nearly 
finished  your  building?" 

"  Why,  the  walls  are  so  low  I  can  jump  over 
them  still,  as  Remus  did  over  the  walls  of 
Rome,"  said  Ce'sar,  laughing;  but  his  father 
turned  away,  scarlet  with  confusion. 

"  I  won't  be  criticised  and  catechised,  before 
my  own  son  too,"  said  he,  angrily.  "  Cesar! 
go  to  bed  at  once." 

The  boy  looked  surprised,  but  still  prepared 
to  depart ;  kissed  his  mother,  and  said  good- 
night to  his  father ;  politely,  if  not  very  affec- 
tionately— Mr.  Scanlan's  fondling  days  with  his 
children  had  been  long  done. 

"  Shall  you  want  me  to  take  that  message  to 
Mr.  Langhorne,  father?  I'm  ready  to  fetch 
and  carry  as  much  as  ever  you  li1<e.  Only  I 
thought  I  heard  you  tell  somebody  that  the 
money  subscribed  was  untouched.  What  am  I 
to  say  if  he  asks  me  about  the  £250  you  had  ?" 

Cesar  might  not  have  meant  it — probably, 
shrewd  boy  as  he  was,  he  did  not  as  yet  see 
half-way  into  the  matter — but  quite  uncon- 
sciously he  fixed  upon  his  father  those  intense 
dark  eyes,  and  the  father  cowered  before  them. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  goose  ;  what  do  you 
know  about  business  ?"  said  he,  sharply ;  and 
then  Cesar  woke  up  to  another  fact — to  more 
facts  than  it  was  fitting  a  boy  of  his  age  should 
begin  studying  and  reasoning  upon  ;  especially 
with  regard  to  his  own  father. 

As  for  the  mother,  she  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  them — these  two  men;  for  Ce'sar 
was  fast  growing  into  a  man,  with  all  manly 
qualities  rapidly  developing  in  mind  as  in  body 
— looked,  and  shivered ;  shivered  down  to  the 
very  core  of  her  being.  God  had  laid  upon  her 
the  heaviest  burden  He  can  lay  upon  a  woman. 
She  had  lived  to  see  her  husband  stand  self- 
convicted  before  the  son  she  had  borne  to  him. 

Convicted — of  what  ? 

It  was  quite  true  she  had  taken  little  interest 
in  this  school-building ;  she  hardly  knew  why, 
except  that  her  interest  in  every  thing  seemed 
to  have  died  out  very  much  of  late :  a  dull  pas- 


90 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


sive  indifference  to  life  and  all  its  duties  had 
come  over  her.  And  Edward  had  so  many 
projects  which  never  resulted  in  any  thing.  She 
did  not  believe  this  would,  and  thought  little 
about  it ;  indeed,  the  mere  facts  of  it  reached 
her  more  through  her  neighbors  than  her  hus- 
band, who  seemed  very  jealous  of  her  interfer- 
ence in  the  matter.  .  When  his  first  enthusiasm 
had  ceased,  and  the  subscriptions  were  all  col- 
lected and  placed  in  the  bank,  he  gave  up  talk- 
ing and  thinking  about  it. 

But  now  she  must  think  and  inquire  too,  for 
it  had  appeared  before  her  suddenly,  and  in  a 
new  and  alarming  light.  The  money  which 
Mr.  Scanlan  had  drawn  out,  evidently  not  for 
business  purposes,  whose  money  was  it,  and 
what  had  he  done  with  it  ? 

He  had  said  truly  that  she  managed  all  the 
household  finances  now.  He  left  them  to  her, 
it  was  less  trouble ;  and  she  had  contrived  to 
make  ends  meet — even  including  two  journeys 
to  London,  which  he  said  were  necessary ;  and 
to  which  she  consented  more  readily,  seeing 
Mr.  Summerhayes  was  not  there.  The  artist 
Lad  found  England  too  hot  to  hold  him,  and 
disappeared  permanently  to  Korae.  No  fear 
therefore  of  his  further  influence  over  that  weak 
facile  nature,  with  whom  it  was  a  mere  chance 
which  influence  was  uppermost.  Except  for 
one  thing — and  the  wife  thanked  God  all  her 
days  for  that :  Edward  Scanlan's  pleasures  were 
never  criminal.  But  what  had  he  wanted  that 
money  for,  and  how  had  he  spent  it  ?  Painful 
as  the  question  was,  she  must  ask  it.  To  let 
such  a  thing  go  uninquired  into  might  be  most 
dangerous. 

When  her  boy  was  gone  she  sat  silent,  think- 
ing how  best  she  could  arrive  at  the  truth.  For 
it  was  always  necessary  to  arrive  at  it  by  a  sad- 
ly ingenious  approximation ;  the  direct  truth 
her  husband  had  never  told  her  in  his  life. 
Even  now  he  glanced  at  the  door,  as  if  on  any 
excuse  he  would  be  glad  to  escape.  But  at 
eleven  o'clock  on  a  wet  night  even  the  most 
hen-pecked  husband  would  scarcely  wish  to 
run  away. 

A  hen-pecked  husband !  How  we  jest  over 
the  word,  and  despise  the  man  to  whom  we  ap- 
ply it.  But  do  we  ever  consider  what  sort  of 
a  man  he  is,  and  must  necessarily  be  ?  A  cow- 
ard— since  only  a  coward  would  be  afraid  of  a 
woman,  be  she  good  or  bad ;  a  domestic  traitor 
and  hypocrite,  whose  own  weakness  sinks  him 
into  what  is  perhaps  his  safest  condition — that 
of  a  slave.  If  men  knew  how  we  women — all 
honest  and  womanly  women — scorn  slaves  and 
worship  heroes,  they  would  blame  not  us  but 
themselves,  when  they  are  "hen-pecked." 

Few  men  could  have  looked  less  like  a  hero, 
and  more  like  a  whipped  hound,  than  Edward 
Scanlan  at  this  moment. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  rising  and  lighting  his 
candle,  "  don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  to 
bed  ?     It  is  late  enough." 

*'  I  could  not  sleep,"  she  said,  irritably.  She 
was  often  irritable  now — inwardly  at  least,  and 


sometimes  it  showed  outside,  for  she  was  not 
exactly  an  "amiable"  woman.  There  was  a 
sound,  healthy  sweetness  in  her  at  the  core,  but  ■ 
she  was  like  a  fruit  that  has  never  been  proper- 
ly shone  upon,  never  half  ripened ;  she  set  a 
man's  teeth  on  edge  sometimes,  as  she  did  just  ' 
now.  "How  you  can  sleep,  with  that  matter 
on  your  mind,  I  can  not  imagine." 

"What  matter,  my  dear?" 

"  Edward,"  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  and 
trying  a  plan — a  very  piteous  plan — of  finding 
out  the  truth  by  letting  him  suppose  she  knew 
it  already,  "  you  have  been  doing,  I  fear,  a  very 
dangerous  thing — drawing  out  for  your  own 
uses  the  money  that  was  meant  for  your  new 
school.  When  the  architect  and  builder  come 
to  be  paid,  what  shall  you  do  ?  They  will  say 
you  have  stolen  it." 

This  was  putting  the  thing  so  plainly,  and  in 
such  a  brief,  matter-of-fact  way,  that  it  quite 
startled  Edward  Scanlan.  His  look  of  intense 
surprise,  and  even  horror,  was  in  one  sense  al- 
most a  relief  to  his  wife ;  it  showed  that,  what- 
ever he  had  done,  it  was  with  no  deliberately 
guilty  intention. 

"  Bless  my  life,  Josephine,  what  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  If  I  have  taken  some  of  the  money, 
I  was  obliged,  for  I  ran  so  short  in  London,  and 
I  did  not  like  to  come  to  you  for  more,  you 
would  have  scolded  me  so  ;  if  I  did  draw  a  hun- 
dred or  so,  of  course  I  shall  replace  it  before  it 
is  wanted.  The  accounts  will  not  be  balanced 
for  three  months  yet." 

"And  then?" 

"Oh,  by  then  something  is  sure  to  turn  up. 
Please  don't  bother  me — I  have  been  bothered 
enough.  But,  after  all,  if  this  was  in  your  mind 
— one  of  the  endless  grudges  you  have  against 
your  husband — I  am  rather  glad  you  have 
spoken  out.  Why  didn't  you  speak  out  long 
ago?  it  would  have  made  things  much  easier 
for  me." 

Easier,  and  for  him!  Ease,  then,  was  all 
he  thought  of?  The  actual  dishonesty  he 
had  committed,  and  its  probable  consequences, 
seemed  to  touch  him  no  more  than  if  he  had 
been  an  ignorant  child.  To  appeal  to  him  in 
the  matter  of  conscience  was  idle ;  he  appeared 
to  have  no  idea  that  he  had  done  wrong. 

But  his  wife  realized  doubly  both  the  erring 
act  and  its  inevitable  results.  Now,  at  last, 
she  not  merely  trembled  and  rebelled,  but  stood 
literally  aghast  at  the  prospect  before  her,  at 
the  sort  of  man  to  whom  her  future  was  linked, 
whom  she  had  so  ignorantly  made  her  husband 
and  the  father  of  her  children.  In  marrying, 
how  little  do  women  consider  this — and  yet  it 
is  not  wrong,  but  right  to  be  considered.  The 
father  of  their  children — the  man  from  whom 
theif  unborn  darlings  may  inherit  hereditary 
vices,  and  endure  hereditary  punishments — 
viewed  in  this  light,  I  fear  many  a  winning 
lover  would  be  turned — and  righteously — from 
a  righteous  woman's  door. 

But  it  was  too  late  now  for  Josephine :  her 
lot  had  long  been  fixed.     All  that  she  could 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


91 


do  was  to  exercise  the  only  power  she  had  over 
her  husband  to  show  him  what  he  had  done, 
and  the  danger  of  doing  it ;  to  terrify  him,  if 
no  other  means  availed,  into  truthfulness  and 
honesty. 

"Edward,"  said  she,  "nothing  will  make 
things  easy  for  you.  It  is  useless  to  disguise 
the  plain  fact.  You  can  not  replace  that  mon- 
ey;  you  have  none. of  your  own  wherewith  to 
replace  it.  And  if  when  the  bills  for  the  school- 
building  fall  due,  it  is  found  that  you  have  made 
away  with  the  money  that  was  to  pay  them, 
your  act  will  be  called  by  a  very  ugly  name — 
embezzlement." 

Poor  Edward  Scanlan  almost  started  from 
his  chair.  "You  are  joking — only  joking! 
But  it  is  a  very  cruel  joke,  to  call  your  husband 
a  thief  and  a  scoundrel." 

"I  did  not  call  you  so.  I  believe  you  would 
not  steal — intentionally;  and  you  are  far  too 
simple  for  a  scoundrel.  But  every  body  will 
not  make  that  distinction.  If  a  man  uses  for 
himself  a  sum  of  which  he  is  only  treasurer,  and 
it  is  public  money,  the  public  considers  it  theft, 
and  he  will  be  tried  for  embezzlement." 

Her   husband   had   sometimes    called   her 


"Themis,"  and  not  unlike  that  stern  goddess 
she  looked,  as  she  stood  over  the  frightened 
man,  growing  more  and  more  frightened  every 
minute,  for  he  knew  his  wife  never  spoke  at 
random,  or  merely  for  effect — as  he  did. 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things  to  me,  Jose- 
phine ?  But  I  don't  believe  them.  They  are 
not  true." 

"Then  ask  Mr.  Langhome — ask  any  lawyer 
— any  commonly  honest  man." 

"  How  dare  I  ask  ?" 

"  That  proves  the  truth  of  my  words.  If  you 
had  done  nothing  wrong,  you  would  dare." 

Her  tone,  so  quiet  and  passionless,  struck 
him  with  more  dread  than  any  storm  of  anger. 
He  felt  convinced  his  wife  was  right.  An  over- 
whelming fear  came  over  him. 

"  Suppose  it  were  true,  suppose  I  could  not 
put  this  money  back  in  time,  and  all  were  to 
come  out,  what  would  happen  ?" 

"  You  would  be  sent  to  prison,  tried,  perhaps 
transported." 

"  Oh,  Josephine !  And  you  can  look  at  me 
and  say  such  things — me,  your  own  husband ! 
Can't  you  help  me?  Have  you  already  for- 
saken me  ?" 


THB  MlttHT-WATCU. 


92 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


Quite  overwhelmed,  he  threw  himself  across 
her  knees,  like  one  of  the  children,  and  burst 
into  a  paroxysm  of  childish  weeping. 

Poor  Josephine !  What  could  she  do  ?  Only 
treat  him  as  a  child — her  miserable  husband : 
soothe  him  and  caress  him  in  a  pitying,  mother- 
ly sort  of  way,  not  attempting  either  reproach- 
es or  reasonings,  for  both  were  equally  hope- 
less. Evidently,  what  he  had  done  had  never 
till  now  presented  itself  to  him  in  its  true  as- 
pect; and  when  it  did  so,  he  was  confounded 
by  the  sight.  He  lay,  actually  shaking  with 
terror,  muttering,  "  I  shall  be  sent  to  prison — 
I  meant  no  harm,  yet  I  shall  be  sent  to  prison. 
And  I  shall  die  there,  I  know  I  shall ;  and  you 
will  be  left  a  widow — a  widow,  Josephine,  do 
you  hear?" — with  many  other  puerile  moans, 
which  she  listened  to  without  heeding  much. 
Once  or  twice,  with  a  sudden  recoil  of  feeling, 
she  looked  keenly  at  him,  to  discern  if  possible 
how  much  of  his  agony  of  fear  and  contrition 
was  real ;  or  how  much  was  contrition,  and  how 
much  only  fear. 

Edward  Scanlan  was  too  weak  to  be  a  scoun- 
drel, at  least  a  deliberate  one.  But  your  un- 
conscious sinners,  perhaps,  do  the  most  harm 
after  all,  because  you  can  use  none  of  the  or- 
dinary weapons  against  them.  You  can  de- 
fend yourself  against  a  straightforward  villain  ; 
but  a  man  who  cries  "  peccavi"  to  all  you  have 
to  urge  against  him,  who  is  ready  to  plead 
guilty  to  all  the  sins  in  the  Decalogue,  and 
commit  them  again  to-morrow — against  such  a 
one  what  chance  have  you  ? 

Mrs,  Scanlan  had  none.  To-night  it  was 
useless  to  say  another  word ;  it  would  be  like 
striking  a  man  that  was  down.  All  she  could 
do  was  to  calm  her  husband's  violent  agitation 
— to  get  him  to  bed  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
then  to  watch  by  him  till  he  fell  asleep,  which 
he  did  soon  enough,  holding  fast  by  his  wife's 
hand. 

Wretched  wife!  forlorn  mother!  Heaven 
and  earth  seemed  leagued  against  her,  as  she 
sat  for  hours  in  that  dull  calm — alive  to  all 
which  had  happened  or  might  happen  —  yet 
bound  by  a  temporary  spell,  which  made  it  all 
unreal.  She  sat,  the  only  creature  awake  in 
the  house ;  and  scarcely  stirred  until  dawn 
broke  over  those  smooth,  low  hills,  every  out- 
line of  which  she  now  knew  so  well — the  hills 
behind  which  lay  the  invisible  sea  which  round- 
ed that  smiling  France  whence  her  forefathers 
came.  "  Why,  oh  why  was  I  ever  born ! "  cried 
she  in  her  heart. 

Ah !  not  here,  not  here  in  this  dimly  seen, 
imperfect  life,  must  any  of  us  expect  to  find 
the  complete  answer  to  that  question. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

In  spite  of  her  long  knowledge  of  her  hus- 
band's character,  Mrs.  Scanlan  had  expected — 
blindly  expected — that  after  last  night  he  would 
wake  up  fully  alive  to  his  position,  amenable  to 


reason,  and  glad  to  be  helped,  even  if  he  could 
not  help  himself.  But  no ;  he  shirked  it  all. 
He  rose,  after  a  good  night's  sleep,  as  if  nothing 
were  amiss,  avoided  every  allusion  to  unpleas- 
ant things,  and  all  chance  of  private  conversa- 
tion with  his  wife,  ate  a  hearty  breakfast,  and 
then  set  off  for  a  walk,  taking  Ce'sar  with  him ; 
evidently — this  companionship  of  father  and  son 
being  very  unusual — in  order  to  avoid  Ce'sar's 
talking  with  his  mother  at  home. 

When  Josephine  perceived  this  her  heart 
hardened.  The  tenderness  which  had  come 
over  her  during  the  heavy  watches  of  the  night, 
when  she  sat  by  the  sleeping  man,  and  tried  to 
remember  that  he  was  her  husband,  and  she 
must  save  him,  if  possible,  from  the  result  of 
his  own  folly — to  call  it  by  no  worse  name — 
this  softness  dried  up ;  her  spirit  changed 
within  her;  and  the  plans  she  had  formed, 
the  sacrifices  she  had  contemplated  for  his 
sake,  seemed  but  wasted  labor,  love  thrown 
away. 

At  dinner-time  Mr.  Scanlan  did  not  return, 
but  Cesar  did,  apparently  of  his  own  accord. 
He  had  not  been  to  school,  but  had  been  oc- 
cupied in  delivering  various  notes  for  his  father 
— "begging  letters,"  he  had  overheard  them 
called  in  one  drawing-room,  while  waiting  in 
the  hall — and  the  proud  lad  had  gone  home 
burning  with  indignation,  which  he  tried  hard 
not  to  let  his  mother  see. 

"  Why  should  papa  •  beg  ?' "  said  he ;  "  espe- 
cially money — and  I  know  it  was  money,  for  I 
had  to  pay  it  into  the  bank  afterward ;  several 
five-pound  notes." 

"They  were  probably  for  the  school,"  the 
mother  said,  and  guessed  at  once  that,  by  the 
common  system  of  robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul, 
which  weak  people  are  so  apt  to  indulge  in,  her 
husband  had  been  trying  to  replace  his  defalca- 
tions by  collecting  further  subscriptions.  She 
tried  to  find  out  what  she  could  from  her  son, 
excusing  herself  secretly  by  the  vital  necessity 
there  was  that  she  should  know  the  truth ;  but 
Cesar  was  very  uncommunicative.  He  had  evi- 
dently been  charged  to  say  as  little  as  he  could 
of  what  he  had  done  or  where  he  had  been ; 
and,  being  a  boy  of  honor,  he  kept  faith,  even 
though  it  cost  him  a  sore  struggle,  for  he  was 
passionately  fond  of  his  mother.  At  last  he 
said,  plainly,  "Please,  don't  question  me.  If 
you  want  to  know  any  thing,  ask  papa,"  and 
stole  out  of  the  house. 

Then  a  great  fear  came  over  Josephine — a 
fear  which  only  women  and  mothers,  who  feel 
their  awful  responsibility  toward  the  young  souls 
intrusted  to  them,  can  understand. 

There  comes  a  crisis  in  many  women's  lives 
— I  mean  women  who  have  made  unhappy  mar- 
riages— when  the  wife  becomes  merged  in  the 
mother ;  and  the  divine  instinct  for  the  protec- 
tion of  offspring,  which  Providence  has  rooted 
in  all  our  hearts,  in  some  of  us  even  deeper  than 
conjugal  love,  asserts  itself  so  strongly  that  ev- 
ery other  feeling  bends  before  it.  I  do  not  say 
that  this  ought  to  be — I  only  know  that  it  is — 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


93 


and  I  believe  there  are  circumstances  which 
fully  justify  it ;  for  upon  it  depends  the  whole 
salvation  of  the  children. 

A  wise  and  good  woman  once  said  to  me, 
"  If  ever  you  have  to  choose  between  old  and 
young,  save  the  young ! "  Dares  any  one  preach 
the  doctrine — "If  a  woman  has  to  choose  be- 
tween husband  and  children,  save  the  chil- 
dren ?"  I  think  I  dare !  I  give  it  as  my  de- 
liberate opinion  that  when  the  experience  of 
long  years  had  killed  all  hope  in  the  father, 
and  his  influence  is  ruining  the  children,  the 
slow  corruption  of  daily  example  adding  to  the 
danger  of  inherited  temperament,  the  mother 
is  bound  to  save  her  offspring  from  destruc- 
tion ;  ay,  even  if  in  so  doing  shQ  has  to  cut 
adrift  the  blazing  ship  upon  which  once  all 
her  treasure  was  embarked,  and  escape,  per- 
haps with  life  only,  still  with  life. 

In  what  manner  Josephine  Scanlan  came  to 
this  conclusion,  during  the  miserable  time  which 
followed — when  she  tried  every  means  to  gain 
hef  husband's  confidence,  to  win  him  to  ac- 
knowledge that  sin  was  sin,  and  not  merely 
"  ill  luck,"  and  that  instead  of  shutting  his 
eyes  on  his  position  he  ought  to  look  it  in  the 
face  and  strive  to  retrieve  it — I  do  not  know. 
But  that  she  did  come  to  it  I  am  certain.  Wild 
and  terrible  thoughts,  nebulous  at  first,  and  then 
settling  into  a  distinct  purpose,  haunted  her  day 
and  night.  If  she  only  had  her  children  all  to 
herself!  to  earn  their  bread  and  her  own  by  the 
work  of  her  hands,  and  bring  them  up,  if  ever 
so  poor,  honestly ;  out  of  debt  and  out  of  dan- 
ger, out  of  falsehood  and  sham  religion,  out  of 
the  cowardly  weakness  which  comes  to  the  same 
result  as  wickedness !  She  meant  her  husband 
no  harm,  she  had  no  personal  wrong  to  accuse 
him  of;  she  only  wished  to  escape  from  him, 
as  she  would  escape  from  small-pox  or  scarlet- 
fever,  or  any  other  infectious  bodily  disease, 
with  these  poor  little  ones,  whose  moral  health 
was  in  her  hands. 

I  blame  her  not,  I  only  pity  her;  and  the 
horrible  struggle  she  must  have  gone  through 
before  there  even  dawned  in  her  mind  the  last 
resort  of  any  woman  who  has  once  loved  her 
husband — :to  leave  him.  How  it  was  to  be 
done,  where  and  in  what  manner  she  could 
maintain  herself  and  her  children  without  com- 
ing upon  him  for  one  farthing — which  she  was 
determined  never  to  do — was  all  cloudy  at  pres- 
ent ;  but  the  idea  having  once  presented  itself 
to  her  mind,  not  as  a  moral  wrong,  but  a  moral 
right,  germinated  there  day  by  day.    • 

No  counter-influence  came  to  weaken  it.  Her 
husband  seemed  determined  to  avoid  her,  resent- 
ed the  slightest  interference,  and  fell  into  fits  of 
suUenness  whenever  she  approached,  in  the  re- 
motest manner,  that  vital  point  in  his  affairs 
which  hung  over  him  and  his  like  Damocles's 
sword.  He  saw  it  not ;  he  kept  up  more  than 
his  ordinary  gayety,  arranged  a  grand  opening 
of  his  new  schools,  as  public  as  the  rector's  mel- 
ancholy state  made  possible,  and  accepted  with 
supreme  self-satisfaction  the  parish's  tribute  of 


gratitude  for  his  "  unparalleled  exertions"  in  the 
matter. 

This  ovation  took  the  form  of  a  public  break- 
fast, to  which  he,  his  wife,  and  family  were  in- 
vited, and  whither  Mrs.  Scanlan,  with  all  her 
children,  had  to  go  and  receive  the  congratu- 
lations of  Ditchley.  Dr.  Waters  himself — the 
good  old  man — presented  the  piece  of  plate, 
with  much  feeling,  to  the  curate's  wife;  and 
hoped  that  these  elegantly  built  schools,  which 
did  her  husband  so  much  credit,  and  which 
bore  his  name  on  the  comer-stone,  would  carry 
it  4own  to  posterity,  as  well  as  his  three  noble 
boys ;  which  speech  Cesar  listened  to,  in  silence, 
certainly,  but  with  a  curl  on  his  lip  not  good  to 
be  seen  in  a  boy  who  is  listening  to  the  praises 
of  his  father. 

Yet  how  could  the  mother  help  it?  She 
could  not  teach  her  son  that  his  father  was 
a  hero,  or  even  an  honest,  brave,  truthful,  or- 
dinary man.  She  could  only  teach  him — alas ! 
nothing  at  all ;  but  leave  him  to  find  out  things 
for  himself,  and  trust  that  God,  who  sometimes 
strangely  instructs  by  contraries,  would  bring 
all  things  clear  to  her  poor  boy  in  <he  end. 

And  walking  home  that  day,  with  her  hand 
on  his  arm — Cesar  was  taller  than  herself  now 
— Mrs.  Scanlan  made  up  her  mind. 

Her  son  told  her  that  within  a  month  the 
school  accounts  were  to  be  settled,  Mr.  Lang- 
horne  being  appointed  auditor. 

"Does  your  father  know  this?"  she  asked, 
startled  out  of  all  precaution  by  the  imminence 
of  the  danger. 

"Yes,"  Ce'sar  answered  ;  "  but  papa  did  not 
seem  to  care."  And,  though  saying  nothing, 
the  boy  showed  by  his  manner  that  he  guessed, 
plainly  enough,  why  papa  had  need  to  care. 
How  he  had  found  it  out  the  mother  dared  not 
inquire;  but  that  he  had  found  out,  only  too 
surely,  that  his  father  had  taken  and  used  mon- 
ey which  did  not  belong  to  him,  was  sufficient- 
ly clear.  Also  that  his  young  honest  soul  was 
perplexing  itself  exceedingly  about  the  matter, 
and  all  the  more  because,  from  some  new  and 
unwelcome  reticence,  he  could  not  speak  of  it 
to  his  usual  confidante  in  all  things — his  mo- 
ther. 

Into  his  father's  confidence  he  had  been 
taken  to  an  extent  which  made  Josephine 
tremble.  Indeed,  with  the  vague  fear  of  his 
children  being  set  against  him,  Mr.  Scanlan 
had  of  late  been  unusually  demonstrative  to 
them  all.  Uneasy  as  Cesar  was,  it  was  evident 
that  the  delicate  flattery  of  being  treated  as  a 
man,  ajid  talked  to  upon  subjects  that  even  his 
mother  did  not  know,  was  not  without  its  ef- 
fect— how  could  it  be  at  sixteen?  When  she 
thought  of  this,  and  of  what  it  might  result  in, 
Josephine*grew  half  frantic. 

Her  husband  came  home  an  hour  or  two  aft- 
erward, greatly  exhilarated  by  his  success.  Ra- 
diant with  gratified  vanity,  exulting  in  his  re- 
newed popularity,  and  his  undoubted  triumph 
over  his  High-Church  brother,  who  had  been 
present  and  seen  it  all,  he  walked  up  and  down 


94 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


the  little  parlor,  admiring  his  piece  of  plate,  and 
talking  about  himself  and  his  doings,  till,  as 
Bridget  expressed  it,  "  you  would  have  thought 
'the  earth  was  not  good  enough  for  him  to  stand 
upon.  She  only  wondered  why  the  master  didn't 
spread  his  wings  and  fly  away  at  once,  to  the 
moon  or  somewhere,  and  then  the  family  might 
get  their  tea  comfortably."  So  said  the  sharp- 
witted  servant,  feeling  thus  much  on  the  mat- 
ter, and  no  more,  for  of  course  she  knew  no 
more.  But  the  mistress,  who  did  know,  how 
felt  she? 

First,  a  sensation  of  most  utter  scorn — a  wish 
that  she  could  hide,  not  only  her  children  from 
their  father,  but  their  father  from  the  children, 
who,  she^aw,  were  all  looking  at  him  and  crit- 
icising him,  with  that  keen,  silent  criticism  to 
which  youth  is  prone — youth,  just  waking  up 
to  the  knowledge  that  the  grand  eidolon  of 
parenthood  is  not  an  infallible  divinity  after 
all.  By-and-by  there  comes  a  time  when, 
parents  ourselves,  we  begin  to  have  a  tender- 
ness for  even  the  broken  image  of  what  might 
have  been  a  god — but  not  at  first.  The  young 
heart  is  as  stern  as  the  young  conscience  is  ten- 
der. When  children  cease  to  be  worshipers 
.they  become  iconoclasts. 

Adi'ienne  sat  watching  her  father  with  those 
big,  astonished,  half-reproachful  eyes  of  hers, 
but  the  rest  only  laughed  at  him.  (^esar  at 
last  rose  and  quitted  the  tea-table,  slamming 
the  djoor  behind  him,  and  muttering,  as  he 
passed  through  the  kitchen,  "that  he  didn't 
think  he  could  stand  this  style  of  thing  much 
longer."  So  as  soon  as  she  could,  Mrs.  Scan- 
Ian  contrived  to  get  her  husband  out  of  the  way, 
to  cool  his  head,  intoxicated  with  laudations, 
upon  the  breezy  common. 

She  walked  with  him  for  a  long  time  in  si- 
lence, holding  his  arm,  and  trying  to  gather  up 
her  thoughts  so  as  to  put  what  she  had  to  say 
in  the  gentlest  and  most  effectual  form,  and  to 
drive  away  from  her  own  spirit  that  intense 
sense  of  disgust  which  now  and  then  came  over 
her — a  sort  of  moral  sickness,  which  no  famil- 
iarity wdth  Mr.  Scanlan's  lax  ways  had  ever 
quite  overcome. 

We  are  all  accustomed  to  have  faulty  kin- 
dred and  friends,  being  ourselves,  whether  we 
think  it  or  not,  very  faulty  too.  But  what 
would  it  be  to  have  belonging  to  us  an  actual 
criminal,  who  had  not  only  laid  himself  open  to 
the  lash  of  the  law — that  sometimes  falls  on  in- 
nocent people — but  was  really  guilty,  deserving 
of  punishment,  yet  toward  whom  we  ourselves 
must  continue  to  fulfill  those  duties,  an(i  enter- 
tain that  habitual  tendeniess,  which  guilt  itself 
can  not  annul  or  destroy  ? 

Mrs.  Scanlan  asked  herself,  What  if  any  oth- 
er man,  any  stranger,  were  like  her  Edward, 
and  had  done  what  he  had  done,  how  would 
she  have  felt  and  acted  toward  him  ?  Undoubt- 
edly she  would  have  cut  off  herself  and  her 
children  from  the  smallest  association  with  him ; 
have  pitied  him  perhaps,  but  with  a  pity  min- 
gled with  contempt.     Now— oh  the  weakness 


of  womanhood  ! — though  she  planned  quitting 
her  husband,  she  did  not  hate  him.  Many  pit-  i- 
eous  excuses  for  him  slid  into  her  mind.  He  * 
was  so  feeble  of  will,  so  regardless  of  conse- 
quences ;  why  had  Providence  made  him  thus, 
and  made  her  just  the  contrary — put  into  her 
that  terrible  sense  of  right  and  wrong  which 
was  at  once  her  safeguard  and  her  torment, 
making  her  jealous  over  the  slightest  errors  in 
those  she  loved,  and  agonizingly  sensitive  over 
her  own  ?  • 

Perhaps  she  was  in  error  now — had  been  too 
hard  upon  her  husband  ;  had  made  virtue  ugly 
to  him  by  over-preaching  it !  Then  she  would 
preach  no  more,  but  act.  She  had  already  care- 
fully arranged  a  plan  to  get  him  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty; if  he  agreed  to  it,  well  and  good  ;  if  he 
refused —  But  further  she  could  not  look :  she 
dared  not. 

"Edward" — and  her  voice  was  so  gentle, 
that  to  herself  it  sounded  like  a  hypocrite's — 
"don't  go  in  just  yet;  we  so  seldom  take  a 
walk  together!" 

Mr.  Scanlan  assented.  He  was  in  the  best 
of  tempers,  the  most  cheerful  of  moods ;  you 
would  have  thought  he  had  all  the  world  at  his 
feet.  Whatever  doubts  might  affect  him,  doubt 
of  himself  never  did.  He  talked  to  his  Avife, 
in  a  delighted  vaingloriousness,  of  all  he  had 
done,  and  meant  to  do,  with  regard  to  the  new 
schools. 

"But  are  they  paid  for?  Have  you  where- 
withal to  pay  ?  Did  you  replace  the  money 
you  drew  for  yourself?" 

She  put  the  question,  not  accusingly,  but-just 
as  a  mere  question,  and  he  replied,  with  easy 
composure : 

"  Well — not  exactly.  There  will  be  a  cer- 
tain deficit,  which  I  can  easily  explain  to  Mr. 
Langhorne.  He  will  never  be  hard  upon  me  ; 
me,  who  have  worked  so  hard  for  the  parish, 
and  not  been  half  paid  from  the  first.  It  will 
all  come  right,  you'll  see.  Don't  vex  yourself 
about  so  small  a  matter." 

"A  small  matter!"  Josephine  echoed,  and 
hardly  knew  whether  she  was  dealing  with  a 
child,  or  a  man  so  utterly  unprincipled  that  he 
hid  his  misdoings  under  the  guise  of  childish 
simplicity.  "I  am  afraid,  Edward,  you  are 
deceiving  yourself.  People  will  not  think  it  a 
small  matter." 

"What  will  they  think?  Speak  out,  you 
most  intolerable  woman !" 

"They  will  think  as  I  think.  But  why  re- 
peat what  I  have  so  often  said  before  ?  And 
we  have  no  time  for  talking,  we  must  act.  Ce- 
sar tells  me — " 

"  What  has  he  told  you  ? — the  simpleton !" 

"  Do  not  be  afraid.  Only  what  probably  all 
the  world  knows,  that  Mr.  Langhorne  has  been 
chosen  auditor  of  the  school  accounts,  and  that 
they  will  be  all  wound  up,  and  made  generally 
public  in  a  month.     Is  it  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  me  !  Josephine,  you  are 
always  bothering!  Why  can't  you  let  a  man 
alone  ?" 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


95 


"I  would  if  I  were  not  his  wife,  and  his 
children's  mother.  Edward,  just  two  words. 
Have  you  thought  what  will  happen  if  your  ac- 
counts are  looked  into,  and  found  incorrect,  and 
you  can  not  furnish  the  deficit,  as  you  call  it  ?" 

"But  I  shall,  sooner  or  later.  Of  course 
I  am  responsible.  I  shall  tell  Langhorne  so. 
He  will  hush  up  the  matter.  He  would  never 
jn'oceed  to  extremities  with  me." 

"Why  not?" 

*'My  position  as  a  clergyman — " 

"So  a  clergyman  may  do  things  which,  if 
another  man  did,  it  would  be  called  swindling ! 
I  beg  your  pardon" — and  Mrs.  Scanlan  checked 
the  passion  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot — 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  use  hard  words,  but  I  must 
use  plain  ones.  For  I  believe,  in  spite  of  all 
you  say,  that  Ditchley  might  view  the  thing  in 
a  different  light  from  yourself;  and  that  Mr. 
Langhorne,  being  a  remarkably  honest  man, 
and  having  public  money  intrusted  to  his  hon- 
esty, would  find  himself  unwillingly  obliged  to 
have  you  arrested  for  embezzlement,  clergyman 
as  you  are.  You  would  find  yourself  a  little 
uncomfortable  in  the  county  jail." 

Edward  Scanlan  started.  "Nonsense !  You 
are  talking  nonsense!" 

"Excuse  me,  no!  I  am  not  speaking  at 
random  ;  I  know  it  for  a  fact." 

"  How  can  you  know  it  ?  You  have  not  been 
80  mad  as  to  go  and  consult  any  body  ?" 

"I  have  not.  A  wife  must  be  very  mad  in- 
deed before  she  takes  any  body  into  her  coun- 
sel against  her  husband.  But  she  must  pro- 
tect herself  and  her  children,  if  she  can.  I 
borrowed  a  law-book,  and  found  out  from  it 
every  thing  I  wanted  to  know  on  that — and 
other  subjects." 

"I  always  said  you  were  a  very  clever  wo- 
man, and  so  you  are.  Too  clever  by  half  for  a 
poor  fellow  like  me." 

Edward  Scanlan's  speech,  bitter  as  it  was, 
had  an  underlying  cunning  in  it ;  it  touched 
his  wife's  most  generous  point,  and  he  knew 
it. 

"I' am  not  clever,  I  do  not  pretend  to  be," 
she  cried,  warmly.  "I  am  only  honest,  and 
anxious  to  do  my  duty  to  both  husband  and 
children,  and  it  is  so  hard — so  hard !  You  drive 
me  nearly  wild  sometimes.  Edward,  why  will 
you  not  listen  to  me — why  will  you  not  trust  me  ? 
What  motive  can  I  have  in  *  worrying'  you,  as 
you  call  it,  but  your  own  good  and  the  chil- 
dren's? God  knows,  but  for  that  I  would  let 
every  thing  go — lay  me  down  and  die.  I  am 
80  tired — so  tired  ! " 

And  as  she  stood  with  her  face  to  the  sun- 
set, even  its  rosy  glow  could  not  brighten  her 
wan  features  or  her  hair,  in  the  raven  black 
of  which  were  mingling  many  white  streaks. 
Josephine  had  arrived  at  the  most  painful  crisis 
for  a  beautiful  woman,  when  she  is  neither 
young  nor  old ;  not  even  middle-aged,  which 
season  has  sometimes  a  comely  grace  of  its  own  ; 
but  prematurely  faded,  like  the  trees  after  a  hot 
summer  of  drought,  which  attempt  no  lovely 


autumn  tints,  but  drop  at  once  into  winter  and 
decay. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her,  and  saw  it.  He 
was  in  a  vexed  mood,  perhaps,  or  else  he  sim- 
ply said  what  came  uppermost,  without  think- 
ing, but  he  did  say  it,  "Dear  me,  Josephine, 
how  very  plain  you  are  growing!" 

She  turned  away.  She  would  hardly  have 
been  woman  had  the  arrow  not  touched  her 
heart,  but  it  scarcely  penetrated  there.  She 
had  long  ceased  to  care  for  her  good  looks,  and 
now  she  was  too  desperately  in  earnest  about 
other  things  to  mind  what  even  her  husband 
thought  of  her.  It  was  not  till  afterward  that 
his  words  recurred  to  her  memory  and  settled 
there,  as  bitter  words  do  settle,  long'  after  the 
speaker  has  forgotten  them.  Now  she  simply 
turned  the  conversation  back  to  the  point-vin 
question,  and  discussed  it  as  calmly  and  lucni- 
ly  as  she  could. 

The  plan  she  urged  was,  that  Mr.  Scanlan 
should  borrow,  in  some  legal  way,  the  sum* 
wanting,  giving  as  security  a  policy  of  assur- 
ance on  his  life,  and  finding  a  friend  to  guaran- 
tee his  yearly  payment  of  the  same.  This  kind- 
ness she  would  herself  ask  of  Dr.  Waters,  or  of 
Lady  Emma's  husband.  It  was  merely  nom- 
inal, she  knew ;  because,  if  Edward  neglected 
to  pay  the  few  pounds  yearly,  she  could  do  it 
herself;  her  earnings  through  Priscilla  Nunn 
were  still  considerable.  Her  practical  mind 
had  laid  out  the  whole  scheme.  She  had  even 
got  the  papers  of  an  assurance  office ;  there  was 
nothing  for  Mr.  Scanlan  to  do  but  to  take  the 
requisite  steps  for  himself,  which — he  being  un- 
luckily a  man,  and  therefore  supposed  compe- 
tent to  manage  his  own  affairs  and  that  of  his 
household — nobody  else  could  do  for  him.  But 
his  wife's  common-sense  had  simplified  all  to 
him  as  much  as  possible,  and  her  clear  head 
succeeded  in  making  him  take  it  in. 

It  was  of  no  use.  Either  he  did  not  like  the 
trouble — hisj^  Irish  laziness  always  hated  trou- 
ble— or  else  he  had  that  curious  prejudice  which 
some  weak  people  have  against  life  assurance, 
as  against  making  a  will.  Above  all,  he  was 
annoyed  at  his  wife's  having  done  all  this  with- 
out consulting  him,  step  by  step,  in  the  affair. 
It  seemed  to  imply  that  she  had  her  own  way 
in  every  thing,  which  must  not  be.  He  brought 
in  every  possible  argument — Apostolic  or  He- 
braic— to  prove  that  even  to  criticise  or  attempt 
to  guide  her  husband  was  a  dereliction  from 
wifely  duty,  which  he,  for  one,  was  determined 
to  resist. 

Far  different  was  his  tone  the  night  he  flung 
himself  at  her  knees,  and  implored  her  to  help 
him ;  but  then  Mr.  Scanlan  had  been  made  an 
important  personage  to-day.  He  was  like  one 
of  those 

"Little  wanton  boys  who  swim  on  bladders," 

of  his  own  vanity  and  egotism,  and  the  bladders 
had  been  pretty  well  blown  up  since  morning. 
Nothing  that  Mrs.  Scanlan  urged  could  in  the 
least  open  his  eyes  to  the  reality  of  his  position, 


96 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


or  persuade  him  that  he  was  not  sailing  tri- 
umphantly on  a  perfectly  smooth  sea,  with  all 
Ditchley  looking  at  and  admiring  him. 

*' Nobody  will  ever  breathe  a  word  against 
me,"  repeated  he,  over  and  over  again.  "And  I 
dare  say,  if  I  manage  him  well,  Langhorne  will 
aiTange  so  that  nobody  even  finds  the  matter 
out.     Then,  of  course,  it  will  not  signify." 

"Not  signify!" 

Years  ago — nay,  only  months  ago — Josephine 
would  have  blazed  up  into  one  of  her  "furies," 
as  her  husband  called  them  ;  her  passionate  in- 
dignation against  shams  of  all  kinds,  and  espe- 
cially against  the  doctrine  that  evil  was  only 
evil  when  it  happened  to  be  found  out ;  but 
now  she  indulged  in  no  such  outburst.  She 
did  not  even  use  that  sarcastic  tongue  of  hers, 
which  sometimes  could  sting,  and  would  have 
stung  bitterly,  had  she  not  been  such  a  very 
conscientious  woman.  She  merely  echoed  Ed- 
ward's words,  and  walked  on  in  silence.  But 
what  that  silence  covered  it  was  well  he  did 
not  know. 

So  he  made  himself  quite  comfortable,  and 
even  cheerful ;  satisfied  that  he_  was  his  own 
master  and  his  wife's  likewise,  and  had  used 
fully  his  marital  authority.  He  treated  the 
whole  subject  lightly,  as  if  quite  settled,  and 
would  again  have  passed  on  to  other  topics. 

But  Josephine  stopped  him.  Her  lips  were 
white,  and  her  hand  with  which  she  touched 
him  was  cold  as  stone. 

"Pause  a  minute,  Edward,  before  you  talk 
of  this  thing  being  '  settled.'  It  is  not  settled. 
You  have  a  heavy  time  before  you,  though  you 
see  it  not.     I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

"Tush  —  tush!"  cried  he,  much  irritated. 
"As  if  I  could  not  manage  my  own  affairs, 
and  take  care  of  myself.  Do  let  me  alone. 
All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  hold  your  tongue." 

*'I  will,  from  this  time  forward.  Only  it 
would  not  be  fair,  it  would  not  be  honest,  if  I 
did  not  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do^  that  is,  if 
things  go  on  with  us  as  they  have  been  going 
on  of  late." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

Josephine  stopped  a  moment  to  put  into 
words,  plain  words,  though  neither  imprudent 
nor  harsh,  the  truth  she  thought  it  right  not  to 
keep  back.  Stern  as  her  course  might  be,  there 
should  be  at  least  no  concealment,  no  double- 
dealing  in  it. 

"I  mean,  Edward,  that  you  and  I,  who  al- 
ways differed,  now  differ  so  widely,  that  the 
struggle  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ;  for  I  see  that 
it  is  destruction  to  the  children.  To  use  your 
own  favorite  text,  *  two  can  not  walk  together 
unless  they  are  agreed.*  They  had  .better  di- 
vide." 

"I  am  sure  I  have  no  objection.  Good- 
night, then.  I  never  do  take  a  walk  with  you 
that  you  don't  scold  me,"  said  he,  perhaps  will- 
fully misunderstanding,  or  else,  in  his  loose 
way  of  viewing  things,  he  did  not  really  catch 
the  drift  of  her  words. 

She  tried  again.      "  I  shall  never  '  scold'  any 


more ;  I  shall  not  speak,  but  act ;  as  seems  to 
me  right  and  necessary.  I  can  not  sit  still  and 
see  my  children  ruined." 

"Ruined!  Why,  they  are  getting  on  ex- 
ceedingly well.  They'll  take  care  of  them- 
selves, never  fear.  Already  Cesar  knows  near- 
ly as  much  of  the  world  as  I  do." 

"Does  he?"  said  the  mother,  with  a  thrill 
of  fear  which  made  her  more  desperate  than 
ever  to  say  these  few  words — the  fewest  possi- 
ble— which  she  had  told  herself,  at  all  costs, 
she  must  say.  "I  know,  Edward,  children  are 
not  to  a  father  what  they  are  to  a  mother ;  and 
to  you  especially  they  have  never  been  any 
thing  but  a  burden.  I  therefore  have  less 
scruple  in  what  I  intend  to  do." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  all  these  hints  ?" 

"I  hint  nothing;  I  say  it  out  plain.  Your 
ideas  of  honesty  and  honor  are  not  mine,  and 
I  will  not  have  my  children  brought  up  in  them. 
I  shaU  therefore,  as  soon  I  can,  take  a  decisive 
step." 

"  What  ?  inform  against  me  ?  tell  all  Ditch- 
ley  that  your  husband  is  a  thief  and  a  rogue? 
That  would  be  a  nice  wife-like  act." 

"No.  I  shall  not  inform  against  you,  and 
I  shall  never  say  one  word  concerning  you  to 
any  body;  I  shall  simply — leave  you."  \ 

"Leave  me!     What  ridiculous  nonsense!"    J 

Nevertheless,  Edward  Scanlan  looked  star- 
tled. Gentle  as  his  wife  was  ordinarily,  he 
knew  well  that,  when  roused,  she  had  a  "  spirit 
of  her  own  " — that  she  always  meant  what  she 
said,  and  acted  upon  it  too.  And,  as  some- 
times in  his  mistaken  notions  of  propitiating 
her  he  had  told  her  himself,  he  was  a  little 
afraid  of  his  Josephine.  But  the  idea  she  now 
suggested  was  too  daringly  untenable.  His 
sense  of  outward  respectability,  nay,  even  his 
vanity,  refused  to  take  it  in.  After  a  moment- 
ary uneasiness  he  burst  into  laughter. 

"Leave  me!  Well,  that  is  the  drollest 
idea !  As  if  you  could  possibly  do  it !  Run 
away,  bag  and  baggage,  with  the  children  on 
your  back,  and  Bridget  trotting  after.  What 
a  pretty  sight !  How  amused  Ditchley  would 
be!  And  how  could  you  maintain  yourself,  • 
you  silly  woman  ?  Isn't  it  I  who  keep  the  pot 
boiling  ?"  (He  did  not  now,  but  it  was  useless 
telling  him  so.)  "Besides" — and  Mr,  Scanlan 
drew  closer  to  his  wife,  and  tried  to  put  upon 
her  "the  comether,"  as  Bridget  would  say,  of 
his  winning  ways — very  winning  when  he  chose 
— "  besides,  Josephine,  you  couldn't  leave  me ; 
you  are  fond  of  me ;  you  know  you  are," 

Josephine  drew  her  breath  in  a  gasp,  and 
looked  from  her  husband's  face  up  to  the  face 
of  the  sky,  which  seemed  so  clear,  so  pure,  so 
true!  Oh!  the  difference  between, it  and  us, 
between  heaven  and  man ! 

"I  was  fond  of  you,"  she  said;  "but  if  I 
were  ever  so  fond — if  you  were  dear  to  me  as 
the  core  of  my  heart,  and  I  had  children  whom 
you  were  doing  harm  to,  whom  it  was  neces- 
sary to  save  from  you,  I  would  not  hesitate  one 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


97 


minute  ;  I  Would  snatch  them  up  in  my  arms 
and  fly." 

"Here's  a  new  creed!"  and  Mr.  Scanlan 
laughed  still,  for  the  whole  matter  appeared 
to  his  shallow  mind  so  exceedingly  absurd. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  what  St.  Paul  says,  '  Let 
not  the  wife  depart  from  her  husband  ?'  " 

*'  St.  Paul  was  not  a  woman,  and  he  had  no 
children." 

"But  he  spoke  through  the  inspiration  of 
Scripture,  every  word  of  which  we  are  bound 
to  receive. " 

"I  dare  not  receive  it  whenever  it  is  against 
truth  and  justice,"  cried,  passionately,  the  half- 
maddened  wife.  "  I  do  not  believe  blindly  in 
Scripture ;  I  believe  in  God — my  God,  and  not 
yours.  Take  Him  if  you  will — that  is,  if  He  ex- 
ists at  all — but  leave  me  mine — my  God  and 
my  Christ!" 

After  this  outbreak,  which  naturally  horrified 
Edward  Scanlan  to  a  very  great  extent,  he  had 
nothing  to  say.  With  him  every  thing  was  so 
completely  on  the  surface,  religion  included — a 
mere  farrago  of  set  phrases  which  he  never  took 
the  trouble  to  explain  or  to  understand — that 
when  any  strong,  eager  soul  dared  to  pluck  oft' 
the  outside  coverings  of  things  and  pierce  to 
the  heart  of  them,  he  stood  aghast.  No  Ro- 
man Catholic— one  of  those  "Papists"  whom 
he  lost  no  opportunity  of  abusing — could  be- 
lieve more  credulously  in  his  Virgin  Mary  and 
all  the  saints  than  did  this  "gospel"  curate  in 
a  certain  circle  of  doctrines,  conveyed  in  cer- 
tain fixed  phrases,  the  Shibboleth  of  his  portion 
of  the  Church,  upon  which  depended  the  salva- 
tion of  its  members.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
allege  every  Evangelical  clergyman  to  be  like 
Edward  Scanlan ;  or  that  I  should  not  allow 
the  noble  sincerity,  the  exceeding  purity  of  life, 
the  wftrm-hearted  Christian  fellowship,  and  wide 
practical  Christian  charity — oh,  how  infinitely 
wider  than  their  creed  ! — of  this  body  of  relig- 
ionists. But  to  any  one  like  Josephine,  born 
with  a  keen  and  critical  intellect,  a  passionate 
sense  of  moral  justice,  and  a  heart  that  will  ac- 
cept no  temporizing  until  it  has  found  the  perfect 
truth,  the  perfect  right,  this  narrow  form  of 
faith,  which  openly  avers  that  its  principal  aim 
is  its  own  salvation,  becomes,  even  when  sin- 
cere, so  repulsive  that  its  tendency  is  to  end  in 
no  faith  at  all. 

She  had  occasionally  horrified  Mr.  Scanlan 
by  remarks  like  the  foregoing,  but  this  last  one 
fairly  dumfoundered  him.  He  regarded  her 
with  complete  bewilderment,  and  then,  not  hav- 
ing a  word  wherewith  to  answer  her,  said  "  he 
would  pray  for  her."  No  other  conversation 
passed  between  them  till  they  came  to  the  gate, 
when  he  observed,  with  a  patronizing  air, 

"  Now,  my  dear  Josephine,  I  hope  you  have 
come  down  from  your  high  horse,  and  are  ready 
for  supper  and  prayers.  Let  us  drop  all  un- 
pleasant subjects.  I  assure  you  I  am  not  angry 
with  you,  not  in  the  least.  I  always  wish  you 
to  speak  your  mind.  All  I  want  is  a  little 
peace." 

G 


Peace,  peace,  when  there  was  no  peace ! 
when  the  merest  common -sense,  even  a  wo- 
man's, was  enough  to  show  her  on  what  a  mine 
her  husband  was  treading ;  how  at  any  moment 
it  might  burst  at  his  feet,  and  bring  him  and 
all  belonging  to  him  to  ruin  in  the  explosion. 
For,  shut  his  eyes  to  it  as  he  might,  excuse  it 
as  she  might,  his  act  was  certainly  embezzle- 
ment; disgraceful  enough  in  any  man,  doubly 
disgraceful  in  a  clergyman.  When  it  came  to 
be  known,  in  a  community  like  Ditchley,  his 
future  and  that  of  his  family  would  be  blighted 
there  forever.  The  straw  to  which  she  had 
clung  in  case  that  other  future,  which  she  was 
now  so  thankful  he  had  never  known  of,  failed — 
namely,  that  on  Mr.  Oldham's  death  the  living 
of  Ditchley  might  be  given  to  Mr.  Scanlan, 
would  then  become  impossible.  Nay,  wherever 
he  went  her  husband  would  be  branded  as  a 
thief  and  a  swindler'and,  justly  or  unjustly,  the 
stigma  of  these  names  would  rest  upon  his  chil- 
dren. It  might  be  that  in  her  long  torment 
about  money-matters  she  exaggerated  the  posi- 
tion ;  still  it  was  one  cruel  enough  to  madden 
any  honest,  upright- minded  woman,  who  was 
a  mother  likewise.  A  little  more,  and  she 
felt  it  would  be  so ;  that  her  mind  would  lose 
its  balance,  and  then  what  would  become  of 
the  children  ? 

"Edward,"  said  she — and  her  great  black  hol- 
low eyes  gleamed  upon  him  like  one  of  Michael 
Angelo's  sibyls  (not  a  pleasant  woman  to  be  mar- 
ried to ;  a  Venus  or  Ariadne  might  have  suited 
him  far  better) — "one  word  before  it  is  too 
late.  Peace  is  a  good  thing,  but  there  are  bet- 
ter things  still — honesty  and  truth.  Listen  to 
me ;  any  honest  man  will  see  the  thing  as  I  see 
it.  You  must  replace  that  money,  and  there  is 
but  one  way — the  way  I  told  you  of.  Try  that, 
however  much  you  djslike  it ;  save  yourself,  and 
the  children,  and  me.  Husband,  I  was  dear  to 
you  once." 

"Don't  blarney  me,"  said  he,  cruelly,  and 
turned  away. 

His  wife  did  the  same.  That  appeal  also 
had  failed.  But  she  never  altered  her  manner 
toward  him.  She  was  speaking  only  out  of* 
duty,  but  with  no  hope  at  all. 

"  If  you  can  once  get  clear  of  this  liability, 
I  will  go  on  working  as  usual,  and  making  ends 
meet  as  usual.  And  perhaps  you  will  try  that 
we  shall  be  a  little  more  of  one  mind,  instead 
of  pulling  two  ditterent  ways,  which  is  such  a 
fatal  thing  in  the  master  and  mistress  of  a 
household.  But  you  must  decide,  and  quick- 
ly. We  stand  on  a  precipice  which  any  mo- 
ment we  may  fall  over." 

"  Let  us  fall,  then  !"  cried  he,  in  uncontrolled 
irritation,  shaking  ofi^  her  detaining  hand.  ' '  For 
I  won't  insure  my  life,  and  nobody  shall  make 
me.  It  looks  just  as  if  I  were  going  to  die ; 
which  no  doubt  I  shall,  if  you  keep  on  worrying 
me  so.  There,  there,  don't  speak  in  your  sharp 
tone,  which  always  sets  my  heart  beating  like 
a  steam-engine,  and  you  know  my  father  died 
of  heart-disease,  though  they  say  sons  never 


98 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


take  after  their  fathers  but  their  mothers, 
which  ought  to  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  you. 
Never  mind ;  when  you've  killed  me,  and  are 
left  a  widow  with  your  boys,  you'll  be  so  sorry ! " 

So  he  rambled  on,  in  a  sort  of  pitiful  tone, 
but  his  complaints,  as  unreal  as  the  bursts  of 
carefully  -  arranged  pathos  in  his  sermons,  af- 
fected Mrs.  Scanlan  very  little ;  she  was  used 
to  them.  Though  not  robust,  she  always  found 
he  had  strength  enough  for  any  thing  he  liked 
to  do.  It  was  chiefly  when  he  disliked  a  thing 
that  his  health  broke  down.  So  his  lugubrious 
forebodings  did  not  wound  her  as  once  they 
used  to  do.  Besides — God  help  her !— the  wo- 
man was  growing  hard. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  "now  we  understand 
one  another.  You  take  your  own  course,  I 
mine.  I  have  at  least  not  deceived  you  in  any 
way;  and  I  have  had  patience — years  of  pa- 
tience. " 

*'0h,  do  cease  that  dreadful  self-compla- 
cency. I  wish  you  would  do  something  wrong, 
if  only  that  you  might  have  something  to  re- 
pent of.  You  are  one  of  the  terribly  righteous 
people  'who  need  no  repentance.'" 

"Am  I?"  said  Josephine.  And  I  think — 
to  use  one  of  those  Bible  phrases  so  ready  to 
Mr.  Scanlan 's  tongue — that  instant  "the  devil 
entered  into  her  as  he  entered  into* Judas;" 
and  she  passed  into  the  last  phase  of  despera- 
tion, when  we  cease  to  think  whether  we  ought 
or  ought  not  to  do  a  thing,  but  only  that  we 
will  do  it. 

The  head  of  the  family  walked  in  at  his  front 
door,  calling  Bridget  and  the  children  to  pray- 
ers, which  he  made  especially  long  this  night, 
taking  occasion  to  bring  in  "Judge  not,  that 
ye  be  not  judged;"  "First  take  out  the  mote 
that  is  in  thine  own  eye,  and  then  shalt  thou 
see  clearly  to  pull  out  the  beam  that  is  in  thy 
brother's  eye;"  with  other  similar  texts,  all 
huddled  together,  higgledy-piggledy,  in  mean- 
ingless repetition,  so  that  the  first  Divine  utter- 
er  of  them  would  scarcely  have  recognized  His 
own  gracious  words. 

Josephine  heard  them,  as  one  who  hears  not 
' — who  desires  not  to  hear.  She  merely  knelt 
down,  and  rose  up  again,  with  the  sense  of  evil 
possession,  of  the  devil  in  her  heart,  stronger 
than  ever ;  sinking  presently  into  a  sort  of  dull 
despair.  Had  things  come  to  this  pass  ?  Well, 
then,  let  them  come ;  and  there  would  be  an 
end. 

An  end ! — 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Even  had  Mrs.  Scanlan  wished  again  to 
reason  with  her  husband,  he  gave  her  no  op- 
jmrtunity  of  so  doing.  He  scarcely  spoke  to 
her,  or  took  any  notice  of  her,  but  addressed 
himself  entirely  to  the  children  ;  and,  early 
next  day,  he  started  for  one  of  his  three-days' 
visits  to  a  great  house  on  the  borders  of  his 
parish,  where  the  agreeable  Irish  curate  was 


always  welcome,  particularly  in  the  shooting 
season ;  when  all  sorts  of  dukes  and  lords  "  of 
high  emprise"  assembled  to  make  war  upon 
pheasants  and  partridges.  Mr.  Scanlan  sel- 
dom handled  a  gun  himself — it  was  unclerical 
— but  he  was  great  at  a  hedge-side  lunch,  and 
greater  at  a  smoking-room  conclave.  Nor  did 
he  spare  any  trouble  to  be  amusing ;  for,  like 
a  celebrated  countryman  of  his  own,  he  "  dear- 
ly loved  a  lord." 

When  he  had  departed,  saying  loudly  to 
Adrienne,  in  her  mother's  hearing,  "that  he 
was  sure  he  should  enjoy  himself  extremely" — 
when  the  house  would  be  empty  of  him  for  three 
whole  days  (and,  oh,  misery !  it  did  not  feel 
empty,  only  free  and  clear),  then  Mrs.  Scanlan 
^t  herself  to  meet  the  future ;  to  ascertain,  not 
what  she  ought  to  do,  that  was  already  decided, 
but  in  what  rtianner  she  could  best  do  it. 

Deliberately,  judicially,  advisedly — out  of  no 
outburst  of  passion,  no  vengeance  for  personal 
wrong,  but  with  a  firm  conviction  that  she  was 
doing  the  right  thing  and  the  only  thing,  this 
woman  contemplated  quitting  her  husband — 
separating  herself  entirely  from  him  a  mensd  et 
thoro,  as  the  lawyers  say,  from  bed  and  boai'd 
— for  life ;  since  after  sucfi  a  step  there  is  no 
return.  Nor  was  she  a  woman  ever  likely  to 
return.  She  had  much  endurance — long  pa- 
tience ;  she  was  slow  in  making  up  her  mind, 
but  once  made  up  she  almost  never  changed  it 
— suffered  from  neither  hesitations,  recalcitra- 
tions,  nor  regrets,  but  went  resolutely  on  to  th^e 
end. 

She  knew  her  desertion  of  her  husband 
would  bring  no  opprobrium  upon  him;  quite 
the  contrary — the  blame  would  probably  be  laid 
to  her  own  door.  He  had  broken  none  of  the 
external  duties  of  married  life — was  neither  a 
profligate  nor  a  drunkard ;  had  kept  carefully 
within  the  bounds  of  worldly  morality,  and 
probably  the  world  would  sympathize  with  him 
much ;  that  is,  if  he  made  public  his  wife's 
secession,  which  there  was  no  absolute  neces- 
sity for  him  to  do.  "  Going  abroad  a  while  for 
the  children's  education,"  that  was  the  nearest 
and  most  convenient  fiction  to  account  for  her 
absence,  and  this  she  should  leave  him  at  full 
liberty  to  use.  For  she  had  no  wish  either  to 
harm  him,  or  complain  of  him,  or  seek  any 
remedy  against  him.  She  wanted  simply  to 
escape  from  him — to  escape  with  life,  and  only 
that,  for  she  determined  to  take  nothing  with 
her  either  of  hers  or  the  children's,  except 
clothes.  Nor  would  she  ever  ask  a  penny  of 
him  for  maintenance ;  the  whole  income  of  the 
curacy  should  remain  his  to  spend  as  he  chose. 
Thus,  to  the  best  of  her  power,  she  meted  out 
strict  equity  between  him  and  herself,  as  well 
as  between  him  and  his  children.  They  had 
never  owed  much  to  their  father,  except  the 
mere  gift  of  existence;  henceforward  she  de- 
termined they  should  owe  nothing.  It  would 
be  her  daily  counsel  to  them  to  struggle,  woi'k, 
starve  even,  rather  than  ask  him  for  any  thing. 
In  the  new  and  terrible  code  which  she  had 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


99 


laid  down  for  herself,  to  which  she  had  been 
driven  by  most  cruel  circumstance,  no  love,  no 
generosity  was  possible — only  stern,  even-hand- 
ed justice,  the  same  on  both  sides.  She  tried 
to  see  it,  and  do  it. 

Feeling  of  every  kind  the  miserable  wife  put 
aside  from  her  entirely.  Had  she  for  one  in- 
stant let  the  flood-gates  of  emotion  loose,  her 
reason,  strength,  and  power  of  action  would 
have  been  swamped  entirely. 

She  knew  she  was  acting  contrary  to  most 
laws,  social  and  scriptural,  which  the  world 
believes  in ;  but  this  moved  her  not.  It  was 
Mrs.  Scanlan's  peculiarity  that,  her  conscience 
clear,  nothing  external  affected  her  in  the 
least ;  also,  that  if  dissatisfied  with  herself,  no 
praises  of  others  satisfied  her  for  a  moment. 
Therefore  in  this  her  flight,  from  moral  as  from 
physical  contagion,  she  consulted  no  one,  trust- 
ed no  one,  but  was  resolved  simply  to  take  her 
children,  and  depart. 

This  departure  must  be  sudden  ;  and,  of 
necessity,  in  Mr.  Scanlan's  absence,  but  she 
would  arrange  it  so  as  to  make  it  of  as  little 
public  a  nature  as  possible,  so  that  he  might 
give  it  whatever  color  he  pleased.  Whether 
for  or  against  herself  she  little  cared ;  her  only 
anxiety  was  to  do  the  right  thing;  nor,  with 
that  extraordinary  singleness  of  purpose  she 
had,  did  it  much  trouble  her  whether  other 
people  thought  well  or  ill  of  her  for  doing  it. 

The  only  person  to  whom  she  meant  to  con- 
fide the  s'ecret  of  her  flight,  and  where  she  would 
b§*found,  was  Priscilla  Nunn,  upon  whom  she 
depended  for  future  subsistence.  Priscilla  had 
often  lamented  that  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  not  in 
Paris,  where  she  had  lately  established  an  agen- 
cy, in  which  house  Josephine's  skillful  handi- 
work could  have  earned  twice  the  income  it 
did  here.  To  Paris,  therefore,  the  mother  de- 
termined to  go — la  belle  France,  which  she  had 
taught  her  children  to  dream  of  as  a  sort  of 
earthly  paradise,  where  the  sun  always  shone, 
and  life  was  all  pleasantness  and  brightness. 
That  every  one  of  her  young  folk  would  be  eager 
to  go — asking  no  questions;  for  she  had  de- 
termined to  answer  none,  except  ia  the  very 
briefest  way — she  had  not  a  shadow  of  doubt. 
Her  influence  with  her  children  was  still  para- 
mount and  entire. 

Once  in  France,  and  all  her  own,  to  be 
brought  up  in  the  traditions  of  her  race  ;  in  the 
pure  Huguenot  faith,  such  as  she  saw  it  through 
the  golden  haze  of  memory;  in  the  creed  of 
chivalry  and  honor  which,  though  poor  as  peas- 
ants since  the  time  of  the  first  Revolution,  the 
De  Bougainvilles  had  ever  held  unstained — oh, 
how  happy  both  she  and  her  little  flock  would 
be! 

Most  of  all,  C^sar,  who  was  just  reaching  the 
age  when  the  most  affectionate  of  fathers  and 
sons  seldom  quite  agree,  and  nature  herself  gives 
the  signal  of  temporary  separation  ;  after  which 
they  meet  again  on  equal  terms  as  man  and 
man,  neither  encroaching  on  the  rights  of  the 
other.     In  spite  of  their  late  alliance — more 


dangerous  than  any  quarrel — C^sar  and  his  fa- 
ther had  been  far  from  harmonious  for  the  last 
year  or  two ;  and  the  boy  had  confessed  that 
he  should  be  only  too  thankful  when  he  was  out 
in  the  world  '*  on  his  own  hook." 

Now,  C<?sar  was  his  mother's  darling.  Not 
openly — she  was  too  just  to  let  partiality  ap- 
pear— but  in  her  heart  she  built  more  hopes  on 
him  than  on  any  of  her  children.  None  the 
less  so  because  she  saw  in  him  the  old  genera- 
tion revived.  Josephine  had  had  a  passionate 
admiration  for  her  father;  so  strong  that  it 
made  her  struggle  to  the  last  to  keep  sacred  in 
her  children's  eyes  that  pitiful  imitation  of  true 
fatherhood  which  it  had  been  their  lot  to  have, 
while  she  herself  had  been  blessed  with  the  re- 
ality. Her  half-broken,  empty  heart  clung  to 
the  image  of  her  dead  father  which  she  saw  re- 
vived in  her  living  son — the  hope  that,  passing 
over  a  generation,  the  old  type  might  be  re- 
vived, and  Cesar  might  grow  up — not  a  Scanlan 
at  all — wholly  a  De  Bougainville. 

It  seemed  so  at  present.  Besides  being  ex- 
ternally so  like  the  old  Vicomte  that  he  starticd 
her  continually  by  tones,  gestures,  modes  of 
speech,  as  if  it  were  the  dead  come  alive  again 
— he  seemed  in  character  to  be  strong,  reliable, 
truthful,  honest ;  every  thing  that  his  grandfa- 
ther had  been,  and  his  father  was  not.  And 
yet  to  confide  in  him,  to  enlist  him  against  his 
father,  was  a  thing  at  which  Josephine's  sense 
of  right  recoiled  at  once.  The  only  thing  she 
could  do — which  she  was  in  a  measure  forced 
to  do — was  to  learn  from  her  son  the  exact  foot- 
ing upon  which  matters  stood. 

She  did  it  very  simply,  cutting  the  Gordian 
knot  by  what  is  at  once  the  sharpest  and  safest 
knife  that  any  body  ever  can  use — truth. 

*'  Cesar,  I  have  some  very  important  plans  in 
my  mind,  which  concern  you  as  well  as  myself; 
they  will  be  settled  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then  I 
will  tell  you  them  :  in  the  mean  time  tell  me 
every  thing  that  has  passed  between  you  and 
your  father.  I  have  a  right  to  know,  and  papa 
knows  I  meant  to  ask  you." 

*'0h,  I'm  so  glad!"  cried  the  boy,  greatly 
relieved,  and  immediately  began  and  told  ev- 
ery thing. 

It  was  worse  than  she  had  anticipated,  and 
caused  her  to  regret,  not  her  haste  but  her  dil- 
atoriness,  in  compelling  this  confidence.  With 
the  rash  incontinence  of  speech  which  formed 
such  a  curious  contrast  to  his  fits  of  cunning 
reticence,  Mr.  Scanlan  had  not  hesitated  to 
explain  all  his  affkirs  to  his  son — that  is,  in 
the  light  in  which  he  viewed  them.  And  he 
had  for  months  past  been  in  the  habit,  when- 
ever he  wanted  money,  of  sending  the  lad  about 
*' begging,"  as  Ce'sar  irritatedly  called  it :  bor- 
rowing from  house  to  house  small  sums,  on  one 
excuse  or  other,  till  there  was  hardly  a  well-to- 
do  family  in  the  parish  who  had  not  lent  him 
something,  and  never  been  repaid. 

"And  the  strange  thing  is,"  said  the  boy, 
who,  his  tongue  and  his  conscience  being  both 
unsealed,  opened  his  whole  heart  to  his  mo- 


m  M  /&(;iyvvt^oO 


100 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


ther,  "that  papa  does  not  intend  to  pay,  yet 
seems  to  think  this  not  wrong  at  all.  He  says 
that  it  is  the  business  of  the  parish  to  maintain 
him  comfortably,  and  that  borrowing  money  is 
only  doing  as  the  Israelites  did — '  spoiling  the 
Egyptians.'     Mamma,  what  does  he  mean  ?" 

The  mother  answered  nothing.  She  did  not 
even  dare  to  meet  her  boy's  eyes — she  only  cast 
them  upward  in  a  kind  of  despair,  as  if  taking 
Heaven  to  witness  that  the  step  she  contempla- 
ted was  not  only  right,  but  inevitable. 

It  struck  her,  however,  that  before  she  took 
it  she  ought  to  discover,  not  the  equity — of  that 
she  had  no  doubt — but  the  law  of  what  she  was 
about  to  do :  how  far  her  rights  extended,  and 
what  legal  mode  of  defense  she  had,  supposing 
her  lot  drifted  her  into  that  cruel  position — a 
wife  who  has  to  protect  herself  against  her  nat- 
ural protector,  her  husband. 

That  night,  the  children  being  all  in  bed,  and 
even  Bridget's  watchful  eyes  at  last  sealed  safe 
in  slumber,  Mrs.  Scanlan  took  down  a  big  book 
which  she  had  some  time  ago  borrowed  from 
Mr.  Langhorne,  and  began  carefully  to  study 
the  laws  relating  to  married  women  and  their 
property,  in  order  to  ascertain  what  her  rights 
were :  only  her  rights — no  more. 

She  found  what  many  an  unfortunate  wife 
and  mother  has  found :  that,  according  as  the 
law  of  England  then  stood,  and,  with  little  mod- 
ification, now  stands,  a  married  woman  has  no 
rights  at  all. 

First — for  Josephine  had  strength  and  cour- 
age to  write  all  things  down,  so  as  to  have  the 
case  as  clearly  before  her  mind  as  possible — 
unless  there  exists  an  antenuptial  settlement, 
every  farthing  a  wife  may  have,  or  acquire,  or 
earn,  is  not  hers,  but  her  husband's,  to  seize 
and  use  at  his  pleasure.  Second — that  he  may 
personally  "chastise"  her — "confine"  her — re- 
strict her  to  the  merest  necessaries,  or  treat  her 
with  every  unkindness  short  of  endangering  her 
life — without  being  punishable.  Third — that 
if  she  escapes  from  him  he  can  pursue  her,  and 
bring  her  back,  forcing  her  to  live  with  him, 
/and  share,  however  unwillingly,  the  burden  and 
disgrace  of  his  wrong-doings ;  or,  if  he  dislikes 
this,  he  may  refuse  to  maintain  her ;  while,  at 
the  same  time,  if  she  is  able  to  maintain  herself, 
he  can  swoop  down  upon  her  from  time  to  time, 
and  appropriate  all  her  earnings,  she  having 
no  defense  whatever  against  him.  Is  he  not  her 
husband,  and  all  hers  his,  no  matter  how  ac- 
quired'? 

Then,  as  regards  her  children.  After  they 
are  seven  years  old  he  can  take  them  from  her, 
denying  her  even  access  to  them,  and  bringing 
them  up  exactly  as  he  chooses,  within  certain 
limits,  which  the  law,  jealous  of  interference 
with  paternal  authority,  usually  makes  broad 
enough.  In  fact,  until  they  become  of  age, 
they  are  as  much  in  his  power  as  his  wife  is — 
mere  goods  and  chattels,  for  whom  he  is  re- 
sponsible to  no  one,  so  long  as  he  offends  so- 
ciety by  no  open  cruelty  or  crime. 

Rich  women,  who  can  make  to  themselves  a 


barricade  of  trustees,  settlements,  etc. — those  in- 
genious devices  by  which  the  better  classes  pro'r 
tect  themselves  against  the  law — are  able  to  neu- 
tralize its  effects  a  little ;  but  for  poor  women, 
working-women,  dowerless  women,  this  is  how 
it  stands ;  and  thus,  after  a  long  hour  of  half- 
incredulous  studying,  Mrs.  Scanlan  found  it. 

She  sat  perfectly  aghast.  In  her  ignorance 
she  had  never  contemplated  such  a  state  of 
things.  She  knew  marriage  was,  in  a  sense,  a 
bondage,  as  all  duties  and  ties  must  be  more  or 
less ;  but  she  believed  it  a  sacred  bondage,  the 
same  on  both  sides,  or  rather  a  partnership,  in 
which  each  had  equal  rights,  equal  responsibil- 
ities, and,  did  either  fail  in  the  fulfillment  of 
them,  equal  powers  of  self-defense  against  the 
wrong.  For,  alas !  such  is  the  imperfection  of 
things  human,  that  in  all  bonds  we  accept — 
including  marriage — it  behooves  us  not  to  for- 
get the  melancholy  maxim,  "  Treat  every  ene- 
my as  a  possible  friend,  and  every  friend  as  a 
possible  enemy."  And  it  harms  no  men  or  wo- 
men who  have  found  in  a  married  partner  their 
best  and  closest  friend  to  know  that  other  mis- 
erable men  and  women,  who  have  proved  theirs 
to  be  their  direst  enemy,  have  a  refuge  and  pro- 
tection provided  for  them  by  the  law,  which  is 
a  terror  to  evil-doers  only,  not  to  those  who  do 
well. 

Josephine  Scanlan,  now  that  she  knew  her 
lot,  writhed  under  it  as  if  she  had  felt  coiling 
round  her  the  rings  of  a  serpent.  It  bound 
her,  it  strangled  her,  it  hissed  its  hot  breath  in 
her  face,  till  she  seemed  nearly  growing  mad. 

She  had  married — which  alone  implied  that 
she  had  been  content  to  merge  her  existence  in 
that  of  her  husband ;  that  she  desired  no  prom- 
inent self-assertion,  no  contradictory  rights. 
Had  her  marriage  turned  out  what  marriage 
should  be,  neither  would  ever  have  thought  of 
their  rights  at  all,  only  of  their  duties,  and 
scarcely  even  of  these ;  for  love  would  have 
transformed  them  into  pure  delights.  But  ev- 
ery union  is  not  a  happy  one  ;  every  bridegroom 
is  not  what  his  bride  believes  him ;  nor — for  let 
us  be  just — every  bride  what  her  husband  hopes 
to  find  her.  In  such  cases,  what  redress  ?  For 
the  husband,  some,  seeing  he  has  the  power  in 
his  own  hands ;  for  the  wife,  none  at  all.  The 
man  may  be  knave  or  fool,  may  beggar  her  by  his 
folly,  disgrace  and  corrupt  her  children  by  his 
knavery,  yet  she  can  neither  cut  him  adrift,  as 
he  can  her  under  similar  circumstances,  nor  es- 
cape from  him,  as  Josephine  Scanlan  desired 
to  do. 

All  in  vain.  She  found  that,  struggle  as  she 
might,  she  could  not  get  free.  Though  she 
wanted  nothing  from  her  husband,  was  pre- 
pared to  maintain  herself  and  her  children,  not' 
interfering  with  him  in  any  way,  still  he  had 
just  the  same  rights  over  her,  could  pursue  her 
to  the  world's  end,  take  her  children  from  her, 
possess  himself  of  every  thing  she  had — and  the 
law  would  uphold  him  in  this,  so  long  as  he 
kept  within  its  bounds  and  committed  no  actual 
crime.     There  it  was,  clear  as  daylight :  that 


A  BRAVE  LApy/ 


101 


however  bad  a  man  may  be,  however  fatal  his 
influence  and  dangerous  his  association  to  those 
belonging  to  him — for  nothing  short  of  adultery 
or  cruelty  can  a  wife  get  protection  against  him, 
or  succeed  in  separating  herself  from  him  and 
his  fortunes. 

There  are  people  who  believe  this  to  be  right, 
and  according  to  Scripture.  I  wonder  wheth- 
er they  would  still  believe  it  if  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  position  of  Josephine  Scanlan  ? 

As  she  sat  reading,  in  the  dead  of  night,  with 
tlie  house  so  still  that  the  scream  of  a  little 
mouse  behind  the  wainscot  startled  her  and 
made  her  shiver  with  nervous  dread,  there 
came  over  her,  first  a  sense  of  utter  despair, 
and  then  the  frenzied  strength  which  is  born  of 
despair.  Rights  or  no  rights,  law  or  no  law, 
she  would  be  free.  Nothing  on  earth  should 
bind  her,  an  honest  woman,  to  a  dishonest  man  ; 
nothing  should  force  her  to  keep  up  the  sham 
of  love  where  love  was  gone ;  nothing  should 
terrify  her  into  leaving  her  poor  children  to  the 
contamination  of  their  father's  example.  No, 
she  would  be  free.  By  fair  means  or  foul  she 
would  set  herself  free,  and  them  likewise. 

A  timid  woman,  or  one  who  was  keenly  alive 
to  the  world's  opinion,  might  have  hesitated ; 
but  Josephine  was  come  to  that  pass  when  she 
recognized  no  law  but  her  conscience,  no  relig- 
ion except  a  blind  faith  that  God,  being  a  just 
God,  would  make  all  things  right  in  the  end. 
Beyond  this  she  felt  nothing,  except  a  resolute, 
desperate,  ^nd  utterly  fearless  will,  that  was  ca- 
pable of  any  eifort  and  stopped  by  no  hindrance. 
While  she  sat  calculating  all  the  pros  and  cons, 
the  risks  and  diflSculties  of  the  course  she  was 
still  as  ever  determined  upon — only  it  required 
now  cunning  as  well  as  resolution,  deception 
instead  of  truth — she  recalled  the  story  of  a  cer- 
tain Huguenot  ancestress — also  a  Josephine  de 
Bougainville — who,  when  the  Catholics  attacked 
her  house,  stood  at  its  doorway,  pistol  in  hand, 
with  her  two  children  behind  her,  and  fought 
for  them — killing  more  than  one  man  the  while 
— until  she  was  killed  herself.  Josephine  Scan- 
lan would  have  done  the  same — and  she  knew 
it. 

No  future  contingencies  on  the  side  of  expe- 
diency perplexed  her  mind.  Mr.  Oldham's 
death  might  not  happen  for  years,  and  when 
it  did  happen  it  might  not  affect  her :  the  for- 
tune might  be  left  elsewhere.  Nay,  if  not, 
what  matter?  As  the  law  stood,  it  would 
not  be  hers,  but  her  husband's ;  and  he  would 
be  as  unscrupulous  over  thousands  as  he  had 
been  over  hundreds.  Once  she  had  thought 
differently,  had  fondly  hoped  that  the  posses- 
sion of  wealth  would  make  him  all  right;  now 
she  knew  the  taint  in  him  was  ineradicable. 
His  dishonesty,  his  utter  incapacity  to  recog- 
nize what  honesty  was,  seemed  an  actual  mor- 
al disease.  And  diseases  are  hereditary.  At 
least,  nothing  but  the  utmost  care  can  pre- 
vent them  from  becoming  hereditary.  Even 
as  a  noble  ancestor  often  stamps  his  likeness, 
mental  and  physical,  upon  unborn  generations. 


so  does  any  base  blood,  morally  speaking — for 
moral  baseness  is  the  only  real  degradation — 
crop  out  in  a  family  now  and  then  in  the  most 
mysterious  way  for  generations ;  requiring  ev- 
ery effort  of  education  to  conquer  it — if  it  can 
ever  be  conquered  at  all. 

Mrs.  Scanlan 's  ambition  for  her  children  was 
altered  now.  Once  she  had  wished  to  make 
them  rich — now  her  only  longing  was  that  they 
should  be  honest.  The  wealth  of  the  Indies 
would  be  worth  nothing  to  her  if  they  learned 
to  use  it  as  their  father — faithless  in  much  as 
he  had  been  in  little — would  assuredly  teach 
them.  Better  that  Cesar  and  Louis,  and  even 
delicate  Adrienne,  should  earn  their  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  their  brow,  and  earn  it  honestly, 
than  that  they  should  share  any  bread,  even  a 
father's,  that  was  unrighteously  gained ;  or  grow 
up  reckless,  selfish  spendthrifts,  to  whom  wealth 
was  no  blessing,  only  an  added  curse.  If  it 
came,  let  him  take  it!  she  cared  not.  Her 
sole  hope  was  to  snatch  up  her  children  and 

fly- 
That  very  night  Josephine  laid  her  plans, 
modified  according  to  the  new  light  which  she 
had  gained  as  to  her  legal  position — laid  them 
with  "a  caution  and  foresight  worthy  of  one  of 
those  righteous  conspirators  against  unright- 
eous authority,  who,  according  as  they  succeed 
or  fail,  are  termed  in  history  patriots  or  trait- 
ors: Some  end  on  a  throne,  others  on  a  scaf- 
fold ;  but  I  think,  if  they  have  an  equally  clear 
conscience.  Heaven  gives  to  both  good  rest. 
And  good  rest,  strangely  calm,  came  to  Jo- 
sephine's tired  eyelids  somewhere  about  dawn. 
She  woke  with  the  feeling  of  something  hav- 
ing happened,  or  being  about  to  happen — the 
sort  of  feeling  that  most  of  us  have  on  a  mar- 
riage or  funeral  morning;  they  are  strangely 
alike— that  this  day  will  make,  for  good  or  ill, 
a  great  gulf  between  the  old  life  and  the  new. 
Nevertheless,  she  rose  and  prepared  for  it,  as 
somehow  or  other  we  all  do  prepare,  with  a  fac- 
titious calmness,  that  grows  easier  each  minute 
as  we  approach  the  inevitable. 

On  descending  to  her  children,  the  first  thing 
she  saw  was  a  letter  from  Mr.  Scanlan,  not  to 
herself  but  to  Adrienne,  saying  he  was  enjoying 
himself  so  much  that  he  mean*  to  stay  away 
the  whole  week.  Therefore  she  had  before  her 
that  week.  Within  it  soii^thing  might  occur. 
No,  nothing  would  occur — nothing  that  could 
save  her  from  the  act  which  she  felt  was  a  ne- 
cessity. Only  a  miracle  could  so  change  things 
as  to  cause  her  to  change  ;  and  miracles  do  not 
happen  in  these  days. 

Simple  as  her  preparations  were,  she  found* 
them  a  little  difficult  to  manage  without  excit- 
ing the  suspicion  of  her  household.  At  first 
she  had  intended  to  take  Bridget  with  her; 
now  she  decided  not.  No  one  should  be  com- 
promised by  her  departure:  no  one,  until  she 
was  clearly  away,  should  know  any  thing  about 
it.  Besides,  in  leaving  Bridget  behind  at 
Wren's  Nest,  she  left  a  certain  guarantee  that 
things  would  go  on  rightly  there,  and  Mr.  Scan- 


102 


A  BfeAVE  LADY. 


lan's  physical  comforts  be  looked  after,  at  least 
for  the  present. 

For,  strangely  enough,  np  from  the  fathom- 
less tragedy  of  her  heart  came  floating  small, 
ridiculous,  surface  things — such  as  who  would 
arrange  her  husband's  breakfasts  and  dinners, 
see  that  he  had  every  thing  comfortable,  and  do 
0  for  him  the  thousand  and  one  trifles  which — he 
being  either  more  helpless  or  more  lazy  than 
most  men — these  seventeen  years  she  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  doing  roi*  him  ?  Mechanically 
she  did  them  to  the  last ;  even  sewing  buttons 
on  his  clean  shirts,  and  looking  over  his  clothes 
for  several  weeks  to  come,  till  the  farce  and  the 
tragedy  of  her  departure  mixed  themselves  to- 
gether in  such  a  horrible  way,  and  the  familiar 
facts  of  everyday  life  assumed  such  a  ghastly 
pathos,  that  she  felt  she  must  shut  her  eyes  and 
steel  her  heart,  if  her  purpose  was  to  be  carried 
out  at  all. 

Day  after  day  slipped  past ;  as  they  slip  past 
a  doomed  man  who  has  lost  all  hope  of  reprieve, 
yet  has  become  not  yet  quite  indifferent  to  dy- 
ing— a  death  in  the  midst  of  life ;  which,  so  far 
as  this  world  ends,  is  ended  forever.  It  may. 
be  the  entrance  to  a  new  life,  but  this  life  is  the 
familiar  one — this  is  the  one  he  understands. 
Somewhat  thus  did  Josephine  feel  when,  night 
after  night,  she  lay  down  in  her  empty,  silent 
chamber,  foretasting  the  loneliness  that  would 
henceforward  be  hers  till  death.  Yet  she  nev- 
er wavered.  She  believed  she  was  doing  right ; 
and  with  her,  that  question  being  decided,  no 
after-thought  ever  came. 

Still,  she  deferred  till  the  very  last  making 
her  only  necessary  confidence,  which  was  to 
Priscilla  Nunn.  Even  to  her  it  would  be  brief 
enough,  merely  enough  to  secure  the  faithful 
woman's  help  in  Paris,  and  to  conceal  her  ad- 
dress there  from  every  body,  including  Mr. 
Scanlan.  Further,  neither  to  Priscilla  nor  to 
any  one  did  she  intend  to  explain.  When  we 
have  to  hew  off  a  rotten  branch  to  save  the  rest 
of  the  tree,  we  hew  it  off;  but  we  do  not  sit 
slashing  and  hacking  at  it,  and  prating  to  all 
comers  what  harm  it  has  done  us,  and  the  rea- 
son why  we  cut  it  down.  At  least,  Josephine 
was  not  the  woman  to  do  this :  she  acted,  but 
she  never  talked. 

Having  settled  almost  word  for  word — the 
fewest  possible — what  she  had  to  explain  to 
Priscilla,  she  started  on  her  walk  to  receive 
from  the  little  shop  the  money  that  was  due  to 
her — a  tolerable  sum,  enough  to  take  her  and 
the  children  to  Paris,  and  keep  them  there,  at 
least  beyond  want,  for  a  short  time,  till  she  ob- 
tained the  work  which,  with  Priscilla's  assist- 
ance, she  had  no  fear  of  getting.  Every  thing 
she  did  was  done  in  the  most  methodical  man- 
ner, even  to  the  new  name  she  meant  to  take — 
her  mother's  maiden  name — which  she  did  not 
think  Mr.  Scanlan  had  ever  asked  or  heard. 

She  had  hoped  to  go  through  Ditchley  with- 
out meeting  any  one  she  knew,  but  just  before 
^  she  reached  Priscilla's  shop  she  was  stopped  by 
Mr.  Langhome,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for 


some  time,  since  the  sudden  friendliness  which 
had  sprung  up  between  them  after  Mr.  Oldham's 
illness  had  as  suddenly  died  down — she  well 
guessed  why.  From  her  husband's  irritability 
whenever  the  lawyer  was  named,  she  knew  he 
had  tried  to  borrow  from  him,  and  failed :  after 
which  little  episode  Mr.  Scanlan  could  never 
see  merit  in  any  body:  so  Josephine  let  this 
friend  also  drop  from  her,  as  she  did  all  her 
friends.  It  was  safest  and  best  for  them  and 
for  her. 

Still  she  and  Mr.  Langhorne  spoke  kindly 
when  they  did  meet,  and  now  he  crossed  the 
street  to  join  her.  He  had  been  calling  at  the 
Kectory,  he  said  :  had  found  Mr.  Oldham  some- 
what better,  and  the  nurse,  trying  to  make  out 
the  poor  invalid's  confused  speech,  had  caugljt 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Scanlan.  Would  it  not  be 
well,  Mr.  Langhorne  suggested,  for  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan to  go  and  see  him  ? 

Josephine  hesitated.  Great  griefs  had  so 
swallowed  up  her  lesser  ones  that  she  had  not 
visited  her  poor  old  friend  for  weeks  past. 
Now  that  shie  was  quitting  him  too — for  what 
must  surely  be  an  eternal  farewell — she  thought 
she  ought  to  go  and  see  him  once  more.  It 
would  be  painful,  for  she  had  always  kept  a 
tender  corner  in  her  heart  for  Mr.  Oldham ; 
but  happily  he  would  never  know  the  pain. 

"Do  you  really  think  he  wants  me,  or  that 
he  has  begun  again  to  notice  any  body  ?  In 
that  case  I  would  gladly  go  much  oftener  than 
I  do." 

What  was  she  promising,  when  she  could 
fulfill  nothing?  when  in  a  few  days — nay,  a 
few  hours — her  fate  would  have  come,  and  she 
would  have  left  Ditchley  forever?  Struck 
with  a  sudden  consciousness  of  this,  she  stopped 
abruptly — so  abruptly  that  Mr.  Langhorne  turn- 
ed his  keen  eyes  upon  her ;  which  confused  her 
still  more. 

Then  he  said,  in  a  somewhat  formal  man- 
ner, "I  do  not  urge  you  to  go ;  I  never  have 
urged  you,  knowing  it  could  make  no  differ- 
ence in  any  thing  now.  Still,  if  our  poor 
friend  has  any  consciousness — and  we  never 
know  how  much  he  has — I  think  it  would  be  a 
kind  thing  for  you  to  see  him  often." 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  she  said,  and  parting 
from  Mr.  Langhorne,  took  the  turning  toward 
the  Rectory,  passing  Priscilla  Nunn's  door. 
As  she  passed  it  she  was  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain relief :  in  being  able  to  keep,  if  for  only  an 
hour  longer,  the  bitter  secret  which  she  had 
hitherto  so  rigidly  hidden  from  all  her  neigh- 
bors, which,  so  long  as  it  is  unconfessed,  seems 
still  capable  of  remedy — the  misery  of  an  un- 
happy marriage. 

The  Rectory  garden  looked  sweet  as  ever, 
carefully  tended  by  the  honest  old  gardener 
whom  Bridget  would  not  marry.  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan stopped  to  speak  to  him,  and  ask  after  his 
new  wife,  a  young  and  comely  woman,  to  whom, 
in  spite  of  Bridget,  he  made'  an  exceedingly 
good  husband. 

Yes,  he   was  very  comfortable,  he    said — 


A  BRAVE  LADY, 


J08EPUIMK   AND    TUE   REOTOK. 


hadn't  a  care  in  the  world  except  for  the  dear 
master,  and  the  grief  it  was  to  keep  the  garden 
so  nice  with  nobody  to  look  at  it.  He  only 
wished  Mrs.  Scanlan  would  come  sometimes 
and  make  herself  at  home  there,  and  say  what 
she'd  like  to  have  done  in  it,  since  perhaps, 
when  it  pleased  God  to  take  the  dear  master 
out  of  his  troubles,  she  might  come  there  for 
good  and  all. 

Josephine  shrank  back,  knowing  well  what 
the  honest  fellow  alluded  to — the  common  talk 
of  the  parish,  that  Mr.  Scanlan  was  to  succeed 
Mr.  Oldham  as  rector  of  Ditchley.  It  seemed 
as  if  every  word  that  every  body  said  to  her 
that  day  was  fated  to  stab  her  like  a  knife. 

But  when  she  went  up  stairs  to  Mr.  Old- 
ham's room  her  agitation  subsided,  and  a 
strange  peacefulness  came  over  her.  It  often 
did,  in  presence  of  that  living  corpse ;  which 
had  all  the  quietness  of  death  itself,  and  some 
of  the  beauty  ;  for  the  face  was  not  drawn  or 
altered  ;  and  any  one  whom  he  liked  to  see  Mr. 
Oldham  was  still  able  to  welcome  with  his  old 
smile.  As  he  welcomed  his  visitor  now ;  sig- 
naling for  her  to  come  and  sit  beside  him,  and 
take  possession  of  his  powerless  hand. 

Though  there  was  as  yet  in  his  countenance 
no  sign  of  that  merciful  order  of  release  which 
his  nearest  and  dearest  could  not  but  have 
hailed  as  the  best  blessing  possible  to  the  poor 
old  man,  still  this  smile  of  his  seemed  more 
serene  than  ordinary,  and  his  eyes  rested  upon 
his  visitor  With  a  wistful  affectionateness,  as  if 
he  too  were  taking  a  farewell — his  farewell  of 


her,  not  hers  of  him.  In  the  stillness  of  the 
sick-room,  Mrs.  Scanlan  forgot  for  a  time 
every  thing  but  her  poor  old  friend,  who  had 
been  so  true  to  her,  and  so  faithfully  kind  to 
her.  Her  personal  griefs  melted  away,  her 
bitter  and  troubled  spirit  grew  calm.  The 
silent  land,  the  land  where  all  things  are  for- 
gotten, which  was,  alas !  the  only  light  in  which 
she  looked  at  the  invisible  world — for  her  hus- 
band's heaven  was  almost  as  obnoxious  to  her 
as  his  hell — became  a  less  awful,  nay,  a  desira- 
ble country.  In  it  she  might  perchance  find 
again — only  perchance!  for  every  thing  con- 
nected with  religious  faith  had  grown  doubtful 
to  her — those  who  had  loved  her,  and  whom  it 
had  been  noble,  not  ignoble,  to  love ;  her  mo- 
ther, dead  when  she  was  still  a  child ;  her  fa- 
ther, the  vivid  remembrance  of  whom  alone 
made  her  still  believe  in  the  fatherhood  of  God  ; 
possibly  even  her  little  infants,  who  had  but 
breathed  and  died,  and  were  now  laid  safely 
asleep  in  Ditchley  church-yard.  As  she  sat 
by  Mr.  Oldham's  bed  she  could  see  their  white 
head-stone  gleam  in  the  sunset.  And  she 
thanked  God  that  they  at  least  were  safe,  these 
three  out  of  her  nine. 

And  into  this  unknown  land,  to  join  this 
dear  known  company,  Mr.  Oldham  would  soon 
be  traveling  too.  The  puerile  and  altogether 
material  fantasy,  which  is  yet  not  unnatural, 
that  she  should  like  to  send  a  message  by  him 
to  her  dead,  affected  her  strangely.  It  would 
have  been  such  a  comfort ;  just  one  word  to  tell 
her  father  that  she  was  struggling  on  her  best 


104 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


through  this  rough  world,  but  would  be  so  glad 
to  be  with  him,  and  at  peace.  She  sat  until 
the  tears  came  dropping  quietly;  sat,  holding 
Mr.  Oldham's  hand,  and  speaking  a  little  now 
and  then,  in  that  sad  monologue  which  was  all 
that  was  possible  with  him  now.  But  still  she 
felt  less  unhappy,  less  frozen  up.  The  sense 
of  filthy  lucre— of  money,  money,  money,  being 
the  engrossing  subject  of  life,  its  one  hope,  fear, 
and  incessant  anxiety — faded  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. Here,  beside  that  motionless  figure, 
never  to  be  moved  again  till  lifted  from  the 
bed  into  the  coffin,  the  great  truth  that  we 
brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it  is  cer- 
tain we  can  carry  nothing  out,  forced  itself  upon 
her,  with  a  soothing  strength,  as  it  had  never 
done  before. 

She  might  have  remained  longer  on  this, 
which  she  meant  to  be  her  last  visit — only  in 
the  external  calm  and  cheerfulness  that  must 
be  kept  up  with  Mr.  Oldham  it  would  not  do 
to  think  of  such  things — but  Dr.  Waters  came 
in,  and  when  she  rose  to  go  home  he  asked  her 
if  she  would  accept  an  old  man's  escort  over  the 
common ;  it  was  growing  too  dark  for  a  lady  to 
cross  it  alone. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  she,  touched  by  the  kind- 
ness, and  staid.  For  one  day  more  she  might 
still  safely  put  off  her  arrangement  with  Pris- 
cilla,  and  so  extreme  was  her  shi-inking,  even 
within  herself,  from  all  final  measures,  that 
this  was  rather  a  relief.  A  relief  too  it  was 
that,  in  bidding  good-nigtit  to  Mr.  Oldham, 
she  added — and  sincerely  meant  it — "I  shall 
come  again  and  see  you  to-morrow,"  and  so 
avoided  the  last  pang  of  farewell. 

When  they  went  away  together  she  asked  her 
good  friend  the  doctor  what  he  thought  of  his 
patient's  state,  and  how  long  it  might  continue. 
Not  that  this  would  affect  her  purposes  in  any 
way ;  for  she  had  determined  it  should  not ; 
still  she  wanted  to  know. 

But  no  medical  wisdom  could  pronounce  an 
opinion.  Dr.  Waters  thought  that  life,  mere 
animal  life,  might  linger  in  that  helpless  frame 
for  months  or  years,  or  another  stroke  might 
come,  and  the  flickering  taper  be  extinguished 
immediately.  But  in  either  case,  the  old  man 
was  not  likely  to  suffer  any  more. 

*'  Thank  God  for  that!"  sighed  Mrs.  Scanlan, 
with  a  curious  sort  of  enxy  of  Mr.  Oldham. 

She  had  had  it  before — that  desperate  crav- 
ing for  rest,  only  rest !  as  if  the  joys  of  Paradise 
itself  would  be  mere  weariness ;  and  all  she 
wanted  was  to  lie  down  in  the  dark  and  sleep. 
There  was  upon  her  that  heavy  hush  before  a 
storm ;  before  the  God  of  mercy  as  well  as  judg- 
ment arises  in  lightning  and  thunders  to  rouse 
us  out  of  that  lethargy  which,  to  living  souls, 
is  not  repose  but  death.  Almost  before  she 
had  time  to  breathe  the  storm  broke. 

"Mrs.  Scanlan,"  said  Dr,  Waters,  suddenly, 
pressing  her  hand  with  a  kindly  gesture,  for  he 
knew  her  well,  had  been  beside  her  in  many  a 
crisis  of  birth  and  death,  and  was  well  aware, 
too,  though  he  never  referred  to  it,  how  faith- 


fully she  had  kept  his  own  miserable  domestic 
secret  in  years  past — "  Mrs.  Scanlan,  where  is 
your  husband  to-day?" 

She  told  him. 

"  I  am  glad.  A  week's  amusement  will  be 
good  for  him.     He  is  quite  well,  I  hope  ?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

One  of  those  shivers  which  superstition  calls 
"walking  over  one's  own  grave"  ran  through 
Josephine.  Did  Dr.  Waters  suspect  any  thing  ? 
Or  was  it  only  her  own  vague  terror,  which  had 
made  her  feel  for  weeks  past  as  if  she  were 
treading  on  a  mine,  that  she  discovered  in  his 
words  something  deeper  than  ordinary  civility  ? 
Had  he  discovered  any  thing  of  her  husband's 
misdoings  ?  She  feared,  but  her  fear  was  alto- 
gether different  from  the  reality.    It  came  soon. 

"I  walked  home  with  you  to-night,  partly 
that  I  might  say  a  word  to  you  about  your 
husband.  You  are  too  sensible  a  woman  to 
imagine  I  mean  more  than  I  say,  or  to  give 
yourself  groundless  alarm." 

"Alarm!"  she  repeated,  her  mind  still  run- 
ning in  the  one  groove  where  all  her  misery 
lay.      "Tell  me  quickly  ;  do  tell  me." 

"  Nay,  there  is  really  nothing  to  tell :  it  is 
merely  a  harmless  bit  of  precaution.  You  are 
aware  that  your  husband  consulted  me  the 
other  day  about  effecting  an  assurance  on  his 
life  ?" 

She  was  not  aware,  but  that  mattered  little. 
"Go  on,  please." 

"He  said  you  were  very  anxious  he  should 
do  it,  and  he  had  refused,  but,  like  the  disobe- 
dient son  in  the  parable,  afterward  he  repented 
and  went.  You  wished  it,  he  added,  as  a  pro- 
vision for  yourself  and  the  children." 

"I!  Provision  for  me  and  the  children!" 
Even  yet  she  had  not  grown  accustomed  to  her 
husband's  startling  modifications  of  facts. 

The  quick-witted  physician  saw  her  angry 
confusion,  and  tried  to  help  her  through  it. 
"  Well,  well,  it  was  something  of  the  kind.  I 
can  not  be  very  accurate,  and  I  never  inter- 
fere in  family  affairs.  All  I  want  to  urge  upon 
you  is,  unless  there  is  some  very  urgent  neces- 
sity, do  not  let  him  try  to  insure  his  life." 

"Why  not?"  said  she,  facing  the  truth  in 
her  direct,  almost  fierce  way. 

"Because  I  am  afraid  no  office  would  take 
him.  He  has — this  need  not  frighten  you ; 
hundreds  have  it ;  I  have  it  myself,  and  yon 
see  what  an  old  man  I  have  grown  to — but  he 
has  confirmed  disease  of  the  heart." 

"Oh,  Doctor!" 

This  was  all  she  said,  though  the  bolt,  God's 
own  bolt  of  terror,  sent  to  rouse  her  from  her 
lethargic  despair,  had  fallen  in  her  very  sight. 
In  all  her  thoughts  about  her  husband  the 
thought  of  his  death  had  never  crossed  her 
imagination.  He  seemed,  one  of  the  sort  of 
people  who  live  forever,  and  enjoy  life  under 
all  circumstances;  being  blessed  with  an  easy» 
temper,  a  good  digestion,  and  no  heart  to  speak 
of.  That  he,  Edward  Scanlan,  should  bear 
about  with  him  a  confirmed  mortal  disease,  and 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


105 


not  feel  it,  not  know  it ;  the  thing  was  impossi- 
ble ;  and  she  said  so  vehemently. 

Dr.  Waters  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  a  very 
good  thing  that  he  does  not  know  it,  and  he 
never  may,  for  this  sort  of  complaint  advances 
so  slowly  that  he  may  live  many  years  and  die 
of  some  other  disease  after  all.  But  there  it 
is,  and  any  doctor  could  find  it  out — the  doctor 
of  the  assurance  company  most  certainly  would. 
And  if  Mr.  Scanlan,  with  his  nervous  tempera- 
ment, were  told  of  it,  the  consequences  might 
be  serious.  Therefore,  I  tell  his  wife,  who  is 
the  bravest  woman  I  know,  and  who  can  keep 
a  secret  better  than  any  other  woman  I  know." 

"Ah  !"  feeling  that  upon  her  was  laid — and 
laid  for  life — another  burden.  No  lying  down 
to  rfest  now ;  she  must  arise  and  bear  it.  "What 
must  I  do  ?    What  can  I  do  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

"Nothing.  Forewarned  is  forearmed.  Tell- 
ing you  this  seems  cruel,  but  it  is  the  best  kind- 
ness. Cheer  up,  my  dear  Mrs.  Scanlan.  I  am 
sure  you  have  looked  so  ill  of  late  that  your 
husband  may  live  to  bury  you  yet,  if  that  is 
what  you  desire.  Only  take  care  of  him  ;  keep 
him  from  overexcitement,  and  above  all  from 
assurance  offices." 

"  I  understand.  I  will  remember.  Thank 
you.     You  are  very  kind." 

Her  words,  brief  and  mechanical,  were  meant 
as  a  good-by,  and  Dr.  Waters  took  them  as  such, 
and  left  her  at  the  gate  of  Wren's  Nest  without 
offering  to  go  in.  Nor  did  she  ask  him ;  the 
strain  upon  her  was  such  that,  if  it  had  lasted 
another  ten  minutes,  she  felt  as  if  she  would 
have  gone  mad. 

She  sat  down,  a  few  yards  only  from  her  own 
door,  behind  a  furze -bush  on  the  common, 
which  lay  all  lonely  and  silent  under  the  stars, 
and  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts  together,  and 
realize  all  she  had  heard. 

I  have  said  that  in  the  noblest  sense  of  love, 
clear-eyed,  up-looking,  trustful,  that  ever  loves 
the  highest,  Mrs.  Scanlan  had  ceased  to  love 
her  husband.  Natural  affection  may  revive  by 
fits  and  starts,  and  a  certain  pitiful  tenderness 
is  long  of  dying ;  but  that  a  good  woman  should 
go  on  loving  a  bad  man,  in  the  deep  and  holy 
sense  of  woman's  love,  is,  I  believe,  simply  im- 
possible. If  she  did,  she  would  be  either  a  fool 
— or  something  worse.  But  often,  when  love 
is  dead  and  buried,  duty  arises  out  of  its  grave, 
assuming  its  likeness,  even  as  the  angel  assumed 
that  of  King  Robert  of  Sicily,  till  one  can  not 
tell  which  is  the  king  and  which  the  angel ;  and 
over  this  divine  travesty  we  may  weep,  but  we 
dare  not  smile. 

The  Edward  Scanlan  of  to-day  was  in  nowise 
different  from  the  Edward  Scanlan  of  yesterday. 
And  yet  his  wife  felt  that  her  relation  to  hira 
was  totally  changed.  So  long  as  he  was  well 
and  happy,  gayly  careering  through  life,  in- 
different to  every  body  but  himself,  selfish, 
unprincipled,  dishonest,  and  yet  of  that  easy 
nature  that  he  would  always  contrive  to  fall  on 
his  feet,  and  reappear  on  the  best  terms  with 
every  body;  then  she  felt  no  compunction  at 


quitting  him :  nay,  her  desertion  became  a 
righteous  act.  But  now?  Every  noble,  ten- 
der, generous  feeling  in  the  woman's  breast  re- 
volted at  doing  the  very  thing  which  an  hour 
before  she  had  been  resolved  upon. 

This  change  seemed  hardly  her  own  act — at 
least  she  did  it  more  by  instinct  than  reason- 
ing; indeed,  she  hardly  reasoned  at  all  about 
it,  or  paused  to  consider  whether,  in  thus  total- 
ly ignoring  her  past  resolve,  she  needed  to 
blame  herself  for  having  ever  made  it.  The 
thing  was  now  impossible;  that  was  enough. 
While  desperately  pursuing  one  course,  fate, 
or  circumstance,  or  Providence,  had  seized  her 
with  a  strong  right  hand,  and  flung  her  upon 
another. 

"I  can't  go  away,"  she  said,  and  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro,  with  sobs  and  tears.  "I 
must  'take  care  of  him,'  as  Dr.  Waters  told 
me.  What  could  he  do  Avithout  me  ?  What 
should  I  dp  if  he  wanted  me,  and  I  were  not 
there  ?" 

This  was  all  she  thought,  all  she  argued. 
Her  single-minded  nature  took  all  things  sim- 
ply, without  morbid  introspection,  or  needless 
self-reproach.  Indeed,  she  hardly  thought  of 
herself  at  all  in  the  matter,  until  there  sudden- 
ly flashed  across  her  the  remembrance  of  the 
children — and  for  a  minute  or  two  her  head 
was  in  a  whirl,  and  she  was  unable  to  see  the 
path  of  duty  clearly.  Only  duty.  No  senti- 
mental revulsion  of  feeling  drew  her  back  to 
the  days  when  the  children  were  not,  and  her 
young  lover  -  husband  was  to  her  all  in  all. 
Those  days  were  dead  forever ;  he  had  himself 
destroyed  them.  She  never  for  a  moment  dis- 
guised from  herself  that  her  children — those 
"incumbrances,"  as  Mr.  Scanlan  often  called 
them — were  infinitely  dearer  to  her  than  he. 
She  must  save  her  children,  but  was  she  to  do 
it  by  forsaking  their  father  ? 

"  Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let 
no  man  put  asunder."  Most  true — not  man. 
But  there  are  cases  when  God  Himself  does  it ; 
when  with  His  righteous  sword  of  division  He 
parts  the  wicked  from  the  innocent,  the  pure 
from  the  impure.  The  difficulty  is  for  our  im- 
perfect mortal  vision  to  see  this,  to  recognize 
the  glitter  of  that  sharp,  inevitable  sword,  and 
acquiesce  in  the  blow  of  the  invisible  Hand. 

Josephine  attempted  it  not.  Nor  do  I  at- 
tempt to  judge  her  either  in  what  she  did  or 
what  she  did  not  do ;  I  only  state  the  result — 
that  her  communication  with  Priscilla  Nunn 
was  never  made ;  and  it  was  not  until  both 
were  dead  that  any  one  ever  knew  how  near 
she  had  been  to  quitting  her  husband  forever. 

For  more  than  an  hour  Mrs.  Scanlan  sat 
crouched  under  that  furze-bush,  open  only  to 
the  gaze  of  the  stars,  forever  marching  on  in 
their  courses,  irresistibly,  remorselessly,  taking 
no  heed  of  any  one  of  us  all.  Then,  impelled 
by  a  vague  consciousness  that  the  night  was 
very  chilly,  that  if  she  took  cold  she  should  be 
ill,  and  if  she  were  ill,  what  would  become  of 
the  household,  she  rose  and  went  indoors. 


106 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


Not  to  the  children,  though  she  heard  their 
voices  at  play  in  the  parlor,  but  up  at  once  to 
her  own  room.  There,  in  passing,  she  rested 
her  hand  upon  the  pillow  where  her  husband's 
head  had  lain  for  seventeen  years,  turned  round, 
stooped,  and  kissed  it. 

"I  will  not  go,"  she  said.  "  Who  will  hold 
fast  to  him  if  I  do  not  ?     No,  I'll  not  go." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  had  full  time  for  reconsider- 
ing her  determination,  had  she  been  so  inclined, 
for  her  husband  did  not  return  on  the  day  he 
had  named.  Not  even  though  she  sent  on  to 
him  a  note  from  Mr.  Langhorne,  urgently  re- 
questing the  settling  of  the  school  accounts. 
Evidently  he  had  put  off  to  the  last  extremity 
possible  the  fatal  crisis,  and  was  afraid  to  meet 
it  even  now.  She  was  not,  though  she  knew 
it  must  come,  and  soon  ;  but  it  only  confirmed 
her  resolution  not  to  quit  him. 

Women  are  strange  creatures — I,  a  woman, 
say  it.  Men  think  they  know  us;  but  they 
never  do.  They  are  at  once  above  us  and  be- 
low us,  but  always  different  from  us,  both  in 
our  good  points  and  our  bad. 

Josephine  had  never  had  any  real  happiness 
in  her  husband ;  neither  comfort,  nor  trust,  nor 
rest.  Fond  of  her  he  undoubtedly  was,  even 
yet;  but  it  was  .a  man's  sort  of  fondness,  be- 
ginning and  ending  in  himself,  from  the  great 
use  and  support  she  was  to  him.  Unto  her 
he  had  been  a  perpetual  grief,  a  never-ceasing 
anxiety ;  yet  the  idea  of  losing  this,  of  letting 
hin\  go  and  doing  without  him,  or  rather  of 
allowing  him  to  do  without  her,  presented  it- 
self to  her  now  as  a  simple  impossibility.  The 
tie  which  bound  her  was  not  love — I  should 
profane  the  word  if  I  called  it  so — but  a  stern, 
heroic,  open-eyed  faithfulness ;  seeing  every  one 
of  the  thorns  of  her  most  difficult  way,  yet  de- 
liberately following  it  out  still.  Her  life  hence- 
forward must  be  one  long  battle ;  no  quiet,  no 
pause,  no  lying  down  to  that  longed-for  rest. 
"No  peace  for  the  wicked,"  said  she  mocking- 
ly to  herself  oftentimes,  but  took  little  thought 
whether  it  applied  to  her,  whether  she  was 
righteous  or  wicked.  One  thing  she  knew  she 
was,  and  must  be — bold.  Courage  was  her 
only  chance  now. 

After  discovering  that  as  a  married  woman 
she  had  no  legal  rights,  and  no  help  or  aid  was 
possible  from  any  one,  she  had  determined  to 
take  the  law  into  her  own  hands,  and  protect 
herself  as  well  as  she  could — both  by  boldness, 
and,  if  necessary,  by  the  quality  which  in  wo- 
man is  called  cunning,  in  man  only  diplomacy. 
This  was  the  easier,  because,  as  she  well  knew, 
her  husband's  prominent  characteristic  was  cow- 
ardice. He  was  always  afraid  of  somebody  or 
something,  and  not  unfrequently  afraid  of  him- 
self. He  had  no  persistent  will  at  all ;  it  was 
a  joke  among  the  children  that  if  ever  papa 
talked  about  a  thing  he  was  quite  certain  not 


to  do  it,  and  whatever  he  did  was  done  by  ac- 
cident. Thus  his  wife  knew  that  when  it  came 
to  the  point  she  was  twice  as  strong  as  he. 

Her  plan  of  action  had  been  very  simple :  to 
leave  home,  as  if  for  a  short  journey ;  to  cross 
over  at  once  to  Paris,  and  there,  assuming  a 
French  name,  to  pass  off  herself  and  her  chil- 
dren as  French  returned  refugees.  If  she  ob- 
tained work,  and  was  unpursued,  she  meant  to 
remain  in  Paris ;  otherwise  to  fly  to  the  New 
World,  or  Australia — any  where — so  that  she 
had  her  children,  and  could  escape  her  hus- 
band. Great  as  his  power  was  over  her  and 
them  legally,  morally  it  was  but  small ;  for  ty- 
rant and  victim  change  places  when  the  one 
has  the  soul  of  a  lion  and  the  other  that  of  a 
hare  ;  and  a  mother,  driven  to  despair,  with  her 
children  to  guard,  has  always  something  of  the 
lioness  in  her,  which  makes  her  rather  a  dan- 
gerous animal  to  deal  with. 

Tragical  as  was  the  pass  she  had  come  to, 
there  was  a  certain  comfort  in  it — a  power  in  her 
hands  of  which  she  knew  she  could  at  any  time 
avail  herself;  her  refuge  was  not  her  husband's 
strength,  but  his  cowardice.  And  now  that  she 
had  changed  her  mind,  and  resolved  not  to  leave 
him,  but  to  stay  and  meet  the  worst,  she  hoped 
that  the  same  courage  which  would  have  thrown 
him  off,  and  withstood  him  at  a  distance,  might 
keep  him  in  bounds  while  near.  She  could 
trust  him  no  more,  believe  in  him  no  more  ;  she 
stood  quite  alone,  and  must  defend  herself  and 
her  children  alone ;  still,  she  thought  she  could 
do  it.  She  must  look  things  boldly  in  the  face, 
and  act  accordingly.  There  must  be  no  weak 
yielding  to  what  was  doubtful  or  wrong ;  no 
pretense  of  wifely  duty,  to  "love,  honor,  and 
obey" — because  when  the  first  two  do  not  ex- 
ist, the  third  becomes  impossible — a  ridiculous, 
unmeaning  sham.  Neither  must  there  be,  as 
regarded  the  children,  any  setting  up  of  super- 
stitious filial  fetiches,  only  to  be  kicked  down 
again,  as  all  false  gods  ultimately  are.  If  her 
children  found  out,  as  they  often  did,  that  their 
father  had  told  them  a  lie,  she  must  not  mask 
it,  or  modify  it,  as  often  she  had  done,  to  avoid 
exposing  him.  She  must  say  distinctly,  "  It  is 
a  lie,  but  he  can  not  help  it ;  it  is  his  nature 
not  to  be  able  to  distinguish  between  truth  and 
falsehood.  Pity  him,  and  tell  the  truth  your- 
selves." The  same  in  that  terrible  laxity  of 
principle  he  had  as  to  money-matters,  and  the 
hundred  other  crooked  ways  in  which  he  was 
always  walking ;  whei'e,  rather  than  see  her 
children  walk,  she  would  see  them — she  often 
prayed  that  she  might  see  them !  —  drop  one 
after  the  other  into  their  quiet  graves.  (Did 
God,  not  in  anger,  but  in  mercy,  answer  her 
prayer  ?  I  can  not  tell.  Her  lot  was  hard,  but 
it  might  have  been  harder.) 

While  resolving  that,  in  any  moral  crisis  of 
this  sort,  she  would  have  no  hesitation  what- 
ever in  opening  her  children's  eyes  to  the  er- 
rors of  their  father,  she  still  thought  she  should 
be  able  to  keep  them  to  their  strict  duty,  and 
teach  them  to  honor — not  the  individual  parent, 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


107 


that  was  impossible — but  the  abstract  bond  of 
parenthood;  so  beautiful,  so  divine,  that  the 
merest  relics  of  it  should  be  kept  in  a  certain 
sort  of  sanctity  to  the  last  by  every  human 
being. 

It  was  a  difficult,  almost  a  superhuman  task 
that  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  setting  herself;  but  it 
was  easier  than  the  only  two  other  alternatives 
— of  succumbing  entirely  to  evil,  or,  by  flying 
from  it,  forsaking  her  husband,  and  leaving  him 
to  trouble,  shame,  sickness,  death — all  alone. 

That  the  collapse  of  his  affairs  must  soon 
come,  she  was  certain.  She  hardly  thought  he 
would  be  prosecuted,  but  he  would  be  driven 
from  Ditchley  a  dishonest  man,  his  clerical 
work  at  an  end  forever.  Therefore  upon  her 
alone  would  thenceforward  rest  the  maintenance 
of  the  family;  even  as  she  had  intended,  but 
with  the  additional  burden  of  her  husband. 
What  matter?  She  had  long  ceased  to  look 
forward,  at  least  in  any  happy  way.  Her  hopes 
had  all  turned  to  despair,  her  blessings  to  mis- 
fortunes. Even  that  possible  fortune,  the  pros- 
pect of  which  had  so  long  upheld  her,  had  it 
not  been  less  a  blessing  than  a  curse?  But  for 
it,  and  its  numbing  effect  upon  her,  she  might 
have  striven  more  against  Mr.  Scanlan's  reck- 
lessness, or  have  risen  up  with  a  strong  will, 
and  taken  into  her  own  hands  the  reins  which 
his  were  too  Aveak  to  hold.  But  the  gnawing 
of  this  secret  at  her  heart  had  given  her  a  sense 
of  guiltiness  against  him,  which  had  made  her 
feeble  of  resistance,  indifferent  to  the  present 
in  the  hope  of  the  future.  But  why  regret 
these  things  ?     It  was  all  too  late  now. 

She  was  sure  trouble  was  at  hand  when,  on 
Sunday  morning,  Mr.  Scanlan  had  not  come 
home,  and  she  had  at  the  last  minute  to  send 
Cesar  about  in  all  directions  to  get  some  friend- 
ly clergyman  as  his  substitute.  That  being 
done,  and  her  fears  roused,  lest,  urged  by  the 
pressure  of  circumstances,  or  some  sudden  fear 
of  discovery,  he  might  actually  have  left  the 
country,  the  curate  walked  in  —  crawled  in, 
would  be  the  better  word  ;  for  he  had  an  aspect 
not  unlike  a  whipped  hound.  Afraid  lest  the 
children  should  notice  him,  their  mother  hur- 
ried them  off  to  church,  and  took  him  straight 
up  stairs ;  where  he  thi-ew  himself  down  upon 
the  bed  in  a  state  of  utter  despondency. 

"  It's  all  over  with  me ;  I  knew  it  would  be. 
You  refused  to  help  me,  and  so  it  has  come  to 
this!" 

*'  Come  to  what  ?"  said  Josephine.  He  had 
not  asked,  nor  she  given,  any  welcoming  caress, 
but  she  had  folL/.vcd  him  up  stairs,  and  done 
various  little  duties  that  be  expected  of  her. 
Now  she  stood  beside  him,  pale,  quiet,  pre- 
pared for  whatever  might  happen. 

"  That  fellow  Langhorne  will  wait  no  longer. 
He  insists  upon  having  the  books,  to  go  into 
them  next  week.  And  the  money  is  gone,  and 
I  can't  replace  it.     So  I  am  ruined,  that's  all." 

"Yes." 

"I  have  done  the  best  I  could,"  added  Mr. 
Scanlan,  in  an  injured  tone.     "  I  even  took 


your  advice,  and  went  to  Dr.  Waters  about  in- 
suring my  life,  and  he  promised  to  inquire. 
But  he  too  has  played  me  false.  I  have  heard 
no  more  from  him.  All  the  world  has  forsaken 
me — I  am  a  lost  man.  And  there  you  are, 
dressed  in  all  your  best,  looking  so  nice  and 
comfortable;  I  dare  say  you  have  been  very 
comfortable  without  me  all  week  —  going  to 
church  too,  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter.  Well, 
there,  go !     Leave  me  to  my  misery,  and  go." 

To  all  this,  and  more,  Josephine  made  no 
reply.  She  was  too  busy  watching  him,  try- 
ing to  read  in  his  face  something  which  might 
either  confirm  or  refute  Dr.  Waters's  opinion 
concerning  him.  She  did  see,  or  fancied  she 
saw,  in  spite  of  his  florid  complexion,  a  certain 
unwholesome  grayness,  and  wondered,  with  a 
sharp  twinge  of  self-reproach,  that  she  had 
never  noticed  it  before.  It  was  no  dearer  to 
her,  no  nobler,  this  handsome,  good-natured, 
and  yet  ignoble  face ;  but  she  regarded  it  with 
an  anxious  pity,  mingled  with  thankfulness, 
that  she  alone  bore,  and  had  strength  to  bear, 
the  secret  which  would  have  overwhej^med  him. 
For  though,  in  truth,  it  was  no  worse  for  him 
than  for  all  of  us — we  every  one  carry  withiil 
us  the  seeds  of  death,  and  we  are  liable  to  it 
at  any  minute — still,  to  such  a  weak  nature  as 
Edward  Scanlan's,  and  one  who,  despite  his 
religious  profession,  shrank  with  dread  from 
every  chance  of  that  "  glory"  which  he  was  al- 
ways preaching,  the  knowledg^of  such  a  fact 
as  heart-disease  concerning  himself  wou^d  al- 
most have  killed  him  with  terror  on  the  spot. 

So  once  again  his  wife  took  up  his  burden, 
and  bore  it  for  him — bore  it  all  alone,  to  the 
very  end.  * 

"Then  you  are  not  going  to  church,  after 
all  ?"  said  he,  when,  lifting  his  head,  he  per- 
ceived that  her  bonnet  was  laid  aside,  and  she 
was  sitting  quietly  by  him.  "Now  that's  kind 
of  you,  and  I  am  glad.  Only,  will  not  the  con- 
gregation think  your  absence  rather  peculiar  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  care  for  that." 

"But  you  ought  to  care,"  said  he,  with  sud- 
den irritability.  "I  know  I  should  have  got 
on  twice  as  well  in  the  world  if  I  had  had  a 
wife  who  minded  outside  things  a  little  more." 

Josephine  flushed  up  in  anger,  then  re- 
strained herself.  "Perhaps  so,"  she  answered. 
"But,  Edward,  if  I  have  not  been  a  show 
wife,  I  have  been  a  very  practical  and  useful 
one,  and  I  am  willing  to  be  of  use  now  if  you 
will  let  me." 

"  That's  my  good  Josephine  !  Then  we  are 
friends  again  ?  You  won't  forsake  me  ?  I 
half  thought  you  would.  I  have  had  such 
horrible  fancies  every  night,  of  being  arrested 
and  sent  to  jail,  and  dying  there,  and  never 
seeing  you  any  more.  You  won't  let  it  come 
that  ?  You  wouldn't  like  to  have  your  husband 
shut  up  in  a  prison,  among  all  sorts  of  nasty, 
unpleasant  people — oh,  it  would  be  dreadful ! 
dreadful !  You'll  try  to  save  me  from  it,  Jo- 
sephine ?" 

For  ever  so  long  he  went  maundering  on 


108 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


thus,  in  an  almost  puerile  fashion,  not  ven- 
turing to  look  his  wife  in  the  face,  but  clinging 
fast  to  her  hand. 

A  man  must  be  a  man  to  compel,  a  woman's 
love.  For  a  moment  Josephine  turned  aside, 
and  her  sweet,  proud,  delicate  mouth — the  De 
Bougainville  mouth,  descending  from  genera- 
tion to  generation — even  Cesar  had  it — assumed 
a  curl  that  Mr.  Scanlan  might  not  have  liked 
to  see;  except  that  he  would  never  have  un- 
derstood it.  But  immediately  that  deep  pity, 
which  long  survives  love,  arose  again  in  the 
wife's  heart. 

"  My  dear,  we  will  not  talk  of  prisons ;  per- 
haps it  will  not  come  to  that.  I  might  be  able 
to  devise  some  plan,  if  you  would  now  tell  me 
every  thing.     Mind,  Edward — every  thing!" 

"I  have  told  you  every  thing — except,  per- 
haps, of  my  visit  to  Dr.  Waters,  which  was 
quite  a  sudden  idea.  But  it  came  to  nothing, 
you  see,  as  is  always  the  case  with  me.  Never 
was  there  such  an  unlucky  fellow  in  this  world." 

This  was  his  constant  cry;  but  she  had  ceased 
arguing  against  it  now.  She  had  ceased  even 
to  torture  herself  by  counting  up  that  large 
measure  of  happiness  that  might  have  been 
theirs — youth,  health,  children,  settled  work, 
and  an  income  which,  if  small,  was  certain,  and 
would  have  sufficed  them  to  live  on  in  comfort ; 
but  for  that  fatal  something  —  the  one  rivet 
loose  in  the  wheel — which  her  husband  called 
his  "ill  luck!" 

"  Weil,  why  are  you  silent  ?  What  are  you 
thinking  about  ?  What  do  you  suggest  ?  For 
I  tell  you,  Josephine,  we  are  come  to  the  last  ebb 
— all  is  over  with  me,  unless  I  can  arrange  about 
the  assurance  at  once,  say  to-morrow.  Come, 
you  shall  have  your  wish.  I'll  go  to  the  as- 
surance office  to-morrow." 

Josephine's  heart  stood  still.  Then,  looking 
another  way,  she  said,  "  It  is  not  my  wish  now ; 
I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  do  not  want  you 
to  assure  your  life." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  good  joke !  After  worrying 
me  to  death  about  it,  abusing  me  like  a  pick- 
pocket because  I  wouldn't  do  the  thing,  as  soon 
as  I  decide  to  do  it,  you  turn  round  and  say  you 
don't  wish  it  at  all!  You  are  the  most  fickle, 
changeable  woman — but  you  women  always 
are:  there's  no  making  you  out." 

Josephine  was  silent. 

"  Unless" — with  a  sudden  flash  of  that  petty 
cunning  which  small  natures  mistake  for  pene- 
tration, and  often  fancy  themselves  very  clever 
in  attributing  to  others  motives  they  would 
have  had  themselves  —  "unless,  indeed,  you 
have  some  deep-laid  scheme  of  your  own  for 
managing  me.  But  I  won't  give  in  to  it ;  I 
won't  be  managed." 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu!"  murmured 
Josephine,  using  the  exclamation  not  lightly, 
as  many  Frenchwomen  do  —  she  had  been 
brought  up  too  strictly  Huguenot  for  that — still 
using  it  without  much  meaning,  only  as  a  blind 
cry  of  misery  in  a  tongue  that  her  husband  did 
not  understand.     "Listen tome, Edward," she 


said,  earnestly.  "  I  have  no  deep-laid  scheme, 
no  underhand  design.  How  sliould  I  have  ? 
My  whole  thought  is  for  your  good.  It  is  true 
I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  but  one  may  do  that 
sometimes,  and  find  second  thoughts  best  after 
all.  This  life  assurance  would  cause  you  so 
much  difficulty,  so  much  trouble ;  and  you 
know  you  don't  like  trouble." 

"I  hate  it." 

"And  if  I  were  to  take  the  trouble  from  you 
— if  I  were  to  |ind  a  way  of  arranging  the  mat- 
ter myself—" 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  would,  and  let  me  never 
hear  another  word  about  it,"  said  he,  with  a 
look  of  great  relief,  all  his  oifended  dignity 
having  subsided  in  the  great  comfort  it  was  to 
have  his  burden  taken  off  his  hands.  "You 
are  the  cleverest  woman  I  ever  knew.  You 
may  have  it  all  your  own  way,  if  you  like ;  I 
won't  interfere.  Only  just  tell  me,  as  a  mere 
matter  of  curiosity,  my  dear,  ho\7  you  mean  to 
accomplish  it." 

It  was  a  way  which  had  slowly  dawned  upon 
her  as  the  best — absolutely  the  only  way  to  meet 
this  crisis — by  the  plain  truth.  She  meant  to 
go  over  the  accounts  herself — when  first  she 
married  she  hardly  knew  that  two  and  two  made 
four,  but  she  was  a  very  respectable  arithmeti- 
cian and  book-keeper  now — discover  the  exact 
deficit,  and  then  confess  it,  simply  and  sorrow- 
fully, to  Mr.  Langhorne.  He  was  a  very  good 
man :  she  believed,  if  dealt  with  frankly,  'he 
would  take  the  same  view  of  things  that  she 
did — that  her  husband's  act  had  been  excessive 
carelessness  rather  than  deliberate  dishonesty. 
If  it  could  be  "hushed  up" — oh,  the  agony  it 
was  to  this  honest  woman  that  any  thing  con- 
cerning liny  one  belonging  to  her  required  to  be 
hushed  up! — for  a  time,  she  might  be  able  to 
repay  the  money  by  settled  monthly  install- 
ments out  of  her  own  earnings.  Any  thing, 
every  thing,  that  she  could  do  herself,  she  felt 
safe  about ;  but  all  else  was  like  shifting  sands. 
Still,  she  thought  Mr.  Langhorne  would  trust 
her,  and,  slender  as  her  relations  with  him  had 
been,  she  had  always  found  him  kind  and  just : 
the  sort  of  man  upon  whose  generosity  she 
might  throw  herself,  and  not  feel  it  pierce  her 
like  a  reed. 

But  when  she  tried  to  explain  all  this  to  Mr. 
Scanlan,  he  was  perfectly  horrified !  The  di- 
rect truth  was  the  last  ^ng  he  ever  thought 
of.  Acknowledging  a  sin,  and  then  resolving 
to  retrieve  it — the  only  way  to  reconcile  justice 
and  mercy,  without  which  forgiveness  becomes 
a  sham,  and  charity  mere  weakness  —  was  an 
idea  quite  beyond  his  comprehension.  He  only 
wished  to  hide  guilt,  to  plaster  it  over,  to  keep 
it  from  the  eye  of  the  world ;  and  then  go  on 
cheerfully  as  if  it  were  not  there.  So  as  he 
escaped  punishment,  he  was  quite  satisfied. 

"  No,  Josephine,"  said  he,  with  the  pig-head- 
edness  of  all  feeble  souls ;  "  this  won't  do.  The 
notion  is  perfectly  absurd  !  What  would  Lang- 
horne think  of  me?  what  would  he  think  of 
you,  owning  that  your  husband  had  taken  the 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


109 


.  money  ?  No — no !  If  you  are  to  help  me,  as 
you  said  you  would,  you  must  find  out  some 
other  way  to  do  it." 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  she  answered,  still 
calmly,  though  she  knotted  her  fingers  together 
in  desperate  self-control,  and  looked  down  at 
them,  not  at  the  face  beside  her,  lest  perchance 
she  should  loathe  it  —  or  despise  it,  which  is 
worse  eyen  than  loathing.  "  I  have  thought  it 
all  over  and  over,  till  my  head  has  gone  nearly 
wild,  and  it  all  comes  to  this :  if  you  refuse  to 
do  as  I  suggest,  or  rather  let  me  do  it,  there  is 
nothing  but  ruin  before  you  —  ruin  and  dis- 
grace." 

"The  disgrace  will  not  fall  upon  my  head 
alone,"  said  he,  almost  triumphantly.  "You 
should  think  of  that  before  you  forsake  me.  It 
will  come  upon  you  too,  and  the  children." 

"Ah!  I  know  that!"  groaned  the  unfortu- 
nate wife ;  and  could  have  cursed  the  day  when 
she  had  been  so  mad  as  to  marry — could  have 
envied  with  her  whole  soul  the  childless  women 
whom  she  had  once  used  to  pity.  They,  at 
least,  had  one  consolation  —  with  them  their 
miseries  would  end.  They  need  not  fear  en- 
tailing upon  innocent  posterity  the  curse  of  a 
moral  taint  worse  than  any  physical  disease. 

Bridget  Halloran  once  made  to  me  a  truly 
Irish  remark — that,  if  she  had  the  planning  of 
a  n^v  world,  she  would  arrange  it  so  that  all 
the  men  married  and  all  the  women  remained 
single.  Could  faithful  Bridget  that  day  have 
looked  through  her  kitchen  ceiling  at  her  dear 
mistress,  I  think  she  would  have  been  strength- 
ened in  her  opinion.  It  is  not  good  for  man  to 
be  alone,  or  woman  either;  but  in  that  awful 
leap  in  the  dark  which  both  make  when  they 
marry,  the  precipice  is  much  deeper  on  the  wo- 
man's side.  A  lonely  life  may  be  sad,  but  to 
be  tied  to  either  a  fool  or  a  scoundrel  is  not 
merely  sad,  it  is  maddening. 

Josephine  Scanlan  looked  half  mad ;  there 
was  a  glare  almost  amounting  to  frenzy  in  her 
black  eyes,  as  she  sat  pulling  to  and  fro,  up  and 
down,  till  she  almost  pulled  it  ofi"  her  finger,  the 
thin  gold  circlet,  origin  and  sign  of  so  many 
years  of  unhappiness  past,  of  untold  wretched- 
ness to  come.  Once  more  the  desperate  chance 
of  retrieving  all  by  flight  flashed  across  her  mind, 
and  vanished.  To  leave  him  there,  in  his  low- 
est pbb  of  ill  fortune,  forlorn,  dishonored,  un- 
consciously doomed.  It  would  be  wliat  to 
Josephine  seemed  almost  worse  than  wicked — 
cowardly. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Perhaps, 
if  t  have  patience,  I  may  see  a  way  out  of  this. 
Oh,  if  I  had  any  one  to  show  it  to  me,  to  help 
me  in  the  smallest  degree!  But  there  is  no 
one — no  one  in  this  wide  world." 

And  so,  by  a  strange  and  sudden  thought — 
on^of  those  divine  promptings  that  none  be- 
lieve in  but  those  who  have  them — the  misera- 
ble woman  was  driven  to  seek  for  help  beyond 
this  world.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  did — what  Josephine  seldom  did 
for  herself,  though  she  taught  it  to  her  little 


children  as  a  sort  of  necessary  duty  every  night 
— she  "  said  her  prayers ;"  using  her  children's 
formula,  "  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven."  In 
heaven — and  oh  so  far,  so  terribly,  cruelly  far, 
as  it  seemed  to  her — from  this  forlorn  earth ! 

The  doctrine  of  "answers  to  prayer,"  literal 
and  material,  always  appeared  to  me  egregious 
folly  or  conceited  profanity.  Is  the  great  Ruler 
of  the  universe  to  stop  its  machinery  for  me  ? 
Is  the  wise  evolution  of  certain  events  from 
certain  causes,  continuing  unerringly  its  mys- 
terious round,  by  which  all  things  come  alike 
to  all,  and  for  the  final  good  of  all — to  be  upset 
in  its  workings  for  my  individual  benefit  ?  No  ; 
I  would  not,  I  dared  not  believe  such  a  thing. 
But  I  do  believe  in  the  Eternal  Spirit's  influ- 
ence upon  our  spirits,  in  momentous  crises,  and 
in  a  very  distinct  and  solemn  way,  often  remem- 
bered for  years*  as  Mrs.  Scanlan  afterward  re- 
membered this. 

At  the  very  moment  when  she  sat  hiding  her 
face,  and  trying  to  feel  if  there  was  any  reality 
in  the  prayers  she  had  silently  uttered,  she 
heard  through  the  silence  the  far-olf  sound  of 
Ditchley  church  bell.  Not  the  church-going 
bell — it  had  ceased  an  hour  or  more  ago — but 
the  slow  measured  toll  by  which  the  parish  was 
accustomed  to  learn  that  one  of  their  neighbors 
had  just  departed — gone  into  that  world  of  which 
we  talk  so  much  and  know  so  little. 

"That's  the  passing-bell!"  cried  Mr.  Scan- 
lan, starting  up.  "Who  can  it  be  for?  Just 
count  the  tolls." 

For  in  Ditchley,  as  in  some  other  parishes  in 
England,  it  was  customary  to  ring  out  the  num- 
ber of  tolls  corresponding  to  the  age  of  the  per- 
son who  had  died. 

Josephine  counted  up  to  eighty ;  past  it. 
There  was  scarcely  any  one  in  Ditchley  of  such 
advanced  years,  except  the  rector.  She  sat 
stupefied.  Her  husband  also,  with  a  certain 
kind  of  awe  in  his  face,  again  felt  for  her  hand, 
whispering,  "Can  it  be  Mr.  Oldham  ?" 

Two  minutes  after  she  heard  the  children 
come  in,  much  too  early,  from  church.  Adri- 
enne  and  Gabrielle  were  both  in  tears,  and  Ce- 
sar, looking  very  grave,  repeated  the  tidings 
which  had  reached  the  church  during  sermon- 
time,  and  been  communicated  from  the  pulpit, 
sending  a  thrill  of  solemnity,  if  nothing  more, 
throughout  the  congregation. 

Mrs.  Scanlan  heard,  and  sat  down  where  she 
stood,  as  white  and  still  as  a  stone.  The  end 
had  come  at  last,  of  suffering  to  him,  of  suspense 
to  her :  Mr.  Oldham  was  dead. 

He  had  died  quite  quietly  and  unexpectedly, 
Ce'sar  said ;  for  the  boy,  knowing  his  mother 
was  fond  of  their  old  friend,  had  had  the 
thoughtfulness  to  run  up  at  once  to  the  Rec- 
tory and  inquire  all  particulars.  There  was  no 
struggle,  no  apparent  pain.  The  spirit  had  es- 
caped, like  a  bird  out  of  its  cage — spread  its  in- 
visible wings,  and  flown  away.  Did  it  look 
back,  smiling,  on  that  poor  woman,  come  now 
to  the  verj'  last  ebb  of  her  despair  ? 

Actual  grief  for  Mr.  Oldham's  death  was  im- 


110 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


possible.  It  was  scarcely  one  of  those  depart- 
ures when  friends  hang  over  the  bed  of  the  be- 
loved lost, 

*'Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more." 

Here,  even  the  tenderest  friend  must  rejoice 
that  his  troubles  were  no  more  ;  that  he  was 
released  from  the  heavy  clog  of  the  body,  and 
from  a  life  which  could  never  be  any  joy  or 
use  to  himself  or  others — only  a  miserable  bur- 
den and  pain.  For,  sad  as  it  is  to  see  a  still 
youthful  mind  writhing  in  the  fetters  of  a  worn- 
out,  aged  body,  sadder  still  is  the  climax  which 
must  soon  have  come  to  poor  Mr.  Oldham, 
when  the  body  outlives  the  mind,  and  the  thing 
we  at  last  bury  seems  only  a  body,  a  mere  clod 
of  the  valley,  a  helpless  corruption,  better  hid- 
den out  of  sight.  In  such  circumstances  it  is 
difficult  to  regain  the  feeling*of  still-existent 
spirit,  separate  from  clay.  It  is  only  after  a 
while,  as  the  associations  of  sickness  and  mor- 
tality grow  fainter,  that  the  dead  seem  to  come 
alive  again,  in  all  their  old  identity ;  and  the 
farther  years  part  us  from  them,  the  nearer 
they  appear.  Not  as  dead  and  buried,  but  as 
living  dwellers  in  a  far  country,  to  which  we 
too  are  bound,  and  for  which  we  wait  patient- 
ly, even  cheerfully,  hearing,  louder  and  clear- 
er as  we  approach  thereto,  the  roll  of  the  divid- 
ing seas. 

When  the  first  awe  was  over — the  first  nat- 
ural tears  shed  for  the  dead  who  could  return 
no  more — an  unwonted  lightness  crept  into 
Josephine's  heart.  Her  present  terror  was  at 
any  rate  staved  off;  Mr.  Langhorne  would  be 
for  some  weeks  too  much  engrossed  in  the 
arrangement  of  Mr.  Oldham's  affairs  to  go  into 
the  school  accounts,  and  meantime  what  changes 
might  not  come  ?  Might  it  not  possibly  be  true, 
that  golden  dream  which  had  grown  so  dim 
through  long  delay  ?  Could  she  be  the  rector's 
heiress  after  all  ? 

A  week  ago  she  had  thought  her  misery  ren- 
dered her  indifferent  to  this,  and  all  things  else 
that  might  befall ;  but  human  nature  has  won- 
derful powers  of  reaction,  and  Josephine's  na- 
tij/e  especially.  In  her  there  was  an  irrepress- 
ible hopefulness  which  nothing  could  kill.  Still 
this  very  hope  made  her  suspense  the  more  in- 
tolerable. 

Her  promise  to  Mr.  Oldham  bound  her  lit- 
erally only  till  his  death  ;  she  was  therefore 
free  now  to  unburden  all  her  hopes  and  fears 
to  her  husband.  But  she  never  thought  of  do- 
ing so.  Even  had  there  been  no  other  reason, 
the  horrible  strain  it  was  upon  her  own  mind 
during  the  interval  that  elapsed  between  the 
death  and  the  funeral  —  for  Mr.  Langhorne 
and  Dr.  Waters,  who,  as  executors,  took  every 
thing  into  their  hands,  insisted  upon  waiting  a 
week  for  Lady  Emma  and  Mr.  Lascelles,  nei- 
ther of  whom  came  after  all — this  week  of  mis- 
erable restlessness,  during  which  she  could  do 
nothing,  think  of  nothing,  but  calculate  the 
chances  of  her  fate,  convinced  Josephine  that 
she  must  preserve  her  secret  to  the  last.     If  it 


came  to  nothing,  the  shock  would  be  more  than 
Mr.  Scanlan  could  bear.  If  it  were  true,  he 
would  be  a  little  angry  with  her  perhaps ;  but 
no — the  husband  of  an  heiress,  especially  when 
he  is  a  man  like  Edward  Scanlan,  was  not  like- 
ly to  be  very  angry  with  his  wife,  or  for  very 
long. 

And  during  this  interminable  week,  when 
the  rector  lay  dead — nay,  rather,  as  Josephine 
often  tenderly  said,  was  truly  alive  again — the 
curate  seemed  to  appear  his  best  self,  both  at  /, 
home  and  abroad.  Perhaps  he  was  anxious  to  ^ 
cultivate  his  chances  of  the  living,  or  perhaps  , 
— let  us  give  him  credit  for  the  best  motive 
possible — he  was  really  touched  by  the  death 
which,  he  could  not  help  seeing,  affected  his 
wife  so  much.  He  was  very  little  at  Wren's 
Nest,  to  her  great  thankfulness ;  he  had  of 
course  much  additional  business  to  transact, 
but  whenever  he  did  come  home  he  was  good 
and  kind.  And  he  never  made  the  least  allusion 
to  the  impending  storm ;  which,  perhaps,  being 
temporarily  lifted  off,  he  deluded  himself  would 
never  come ;  that,  in  his  usual  phrase,  some- 
thing would  "  turn  up"  to  protect  him  from  the 
consequences  of  what  he  had  done  amiss.  That 
was  all  he  cared  for.  His  life  was  an  appro- 
priate carrying  out  in  this  world  of  the  belief 
he  held  regarding  the  other — the  all-importance 
of  what  is  termed  "  personal  salvation" — a  doc- 
trine held  by  many  true  and  sincere  Christians, 
which  only  proves  that  they  themselves  are  far 
nobler  than  their  doctrine,  and  that  the  spirit 
of  God  within  us  is  a  diviner  thing  than  any 
external  and  nominal  creed. 

It  showed  the  extreme  self-control  to  which 
Josephine,  so  impulsive  and  passionate  in  her 
youth,  had  attained,  that  even  the  quick-sight- 
ed Bridget  noticed  nothing  remarkable  in  her 
mistress  during  this  momentous  week,  at  least 
nothing  more  than  great  quietness  of  manner, 
and  a  wish  to  escape  observation  and  be  as 
much  alone  as  possible.  She  remained  in  the 
closed  house — closed  out  of  respect  to  the  de- 
parted ;  and  scarcely  quitted  it  until  after  dark, 
when  she  would  rush  for  a  hasty  walk  across 
the  common,  refusing  even  her  son  Cesar's 
company.  Perhaps  an  eye  more  familiar  than 
the  poor  servant's  with  the  signs  of  mental  suf- 
fering might  have  noticed  how  thin  she  grew 
in  those  seven  days — what  a  tension  there  was 
in  her  features — what  an  unnatural  metallic 
ring  in  her  voice ;  but  at  the  time  no  suspicion 
was  I'oused ;  she  kept  her  secret  faithfully  to 
the  last. 

The  week's  end  came  at  length.  The  final 
night — the  night  before  the  funeral — Mrs.  Scan- 
lan slept  as  soundly  as  a  child,  or  a  criminal 
before  execution ;  only  she  had  no  feeling  of 
guilt,  whatever  happened.  Her  act  of  con- 
cealment had  been  deliberate,  conscientious; 
if  it  were  all  to  do  over  again,  she  felt  she 
could  but  have  done  the  same  thing  under  the 
same  circumstances.  Believing  this,  she  was 
utterly  indifferent  to  praise  or  blame,  either 
from  her  neighbors,  or  those  of  her  own  house- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


]I1 


hold.  The  only  matter  of  moment  which 
troubled  her  was  the  fact  itself — so  long  a  cer- 
tainty though  unknown — but  which  in  a  few 
hours  must  be  known  to  herself  and  all  the 
world — the  little  busy  world  of  Ditchley. 

She  had  been  invited  to  the  funeral,  as  com- 
panion to  Lady  Emma,  who  at  first  had  wished 
to  go,  but  afterward  declined.  Mr.  Langhorne 
had  also  expressed  formally  a  wish  that  Mrs. 
as  well  as  Mr.  Scanlan  should  be  present  at  the 
reading  of  the  will;  but  at  the  last  moment 
her  husband  declared  she  should  not  go. 

"Why  not?"  asked  she. 

"Oh,  Lady  Emma's  absence  shows  she 
thought  it  not  decorous  for  ladies  to  attend 
funerals,  and  I  think  so  too,"  said  the  curate, 
dogmatically ;  and  after  a  good  deal  of  beat- 
ing about  the  bush,  he  came  out  with  his  sec- 
ond reason — her  mourning  was  not  handsome 
enough.  Not  daring  to  run  into  debt  for  a  new 
gown,  she  had  made  an  old  one  do.  As  she 
stood  in  it,  its  long  folds  clinging  tightly  to 
her  wasted,  rather  angular  fi<?ure,  her  husband 
looked  sharply,  critically,  at  his  once  beautiful 
wife.  If  her  beauty  had  been  the  sole  spell 
that  enchained  him,  Edward  Scanlan  was  a  free 
man  now. 

"What  a  fright  you  do  make  of  yourself 
sometimes,  Josephine !  I  wish  you  wouldn't. 
I  wish  you  would  remember  it  is  my  credit  that 
depends  on  your  appearance.  When  you  dress 
shabbily  it  is  a  reflection  upon  me.  Indeed 
you  can  not  go  as  you  are  to  tlie  funeral.  It 
would  be  a  want  of  respect  to  Mr.  Oldham." 

"  He  would  not  feel  it  so ;  he  knew  me  bet- 
ter," she  answered,  gently.  "And  I  should 
like  to  see  him  laid  to  rest ;  should  like  to  come 
back  with  you  to  the  Rectory  and  hear  his  will 
read." 

"  Nonsense ;  it  can  not  concern  ns.  He 
liked  me  so  little  of  late,  I  doubt  if  he  has  even 
left  me  ten  pounds  to  buy  a  mourning-ring.  I 
must  go,  I  suppose,  as  a  mere  matter  of  form, 
but  you  need  not.  Women  are  far  better  out 
of  all  these  things." 

Josephine  grew  seriously  troubled.  Her 
presence  at  the  funeral  was  not  necessary,  but 
at  the  reading  of  the  will  undoubtedly  it  was. 
Not  to  shorten  her  own  suspense — that  mat- 
tered little — but  to  "  take  care,"  as  Dr.  Waters 
had  said,  of  her  husband  ;  to  whom  any  shock 
of  sudden  tidings,  either  good  or  bad,  would  be 
very  injurious. 

"  Edward,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  go.  Don't 
hinder  me.     It  can  not  signify  to  you." 

Yfes,  he  protested,  it  did  signify.  People 
might  make  remarks ;  might  say  that  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan pushed  herself  where  she  had  no  business 
to  be,  and  that  ^r.  Scanlan  was  always  tied  to 
his  wife's  apron-string.  He  insisted  upon  her 
staying  at  home.  There  had  come  over  him 
one  of  those  dogged  fits,  peculiar  to 

••Man,  prond  man, 
Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority," 

that  his  authority  must  be  exercised.     When 


}  he  got  into  this  mood — common  to  human  be- 
ings and  asses — Edward  Scanlan  could  neither 
be  led  nor  driven,  but  was  bent  upon  taking  his 
own  way,  just  because  it  was  his  own  way. 

Josephine  sat  down  in  despair.  To  thwart 
her  husband's  will  openly  was  impossible,  to 
submit  to  it  most  dangerous.  As  he  dressed 
himself  carefully  in  his  new  black  suit  and  un- 
exceptionable white  cravat — whosoever  went 
shabby  at  Wren's  Nest,  its  master  never  did — 
talking  complacently  all  the  while  of  his  own 
popularity,  of  the  universal  wish  there  was  that 
he  should  step  into  the  dead  man's  shoes,  his 
wife  was  almost  silent,  absorbed  in  the  immi- 
nent crisis  wherein  it  behooved  her  to  be  so  cau- 
tious and  so  calm. 

Presently  she  made  a  last  effort.  "  Edward," 
she  said,  as  imploringly  as  if  she  had  been  the 
meekest  and  weakest  of  women,  "  do  take  me 
with  you.     I  want  to  go." 

But,  upborne  on  his  huge  wave  of  self-con- 
tent, Mr.  Scanlan  was  immovable. 

"I  have  said  it,  and  I  won't  unsay  it.  Jo- 
sephine, your  going  is  perfect  nonsense,  and 
you  shall  not  go.     I  can  not  allow  it." 

"But—" 

"Am  I  master  in  my  own  house,  or  not  ?  If 
not,  henceforth  I  will  be.  Stop,  not  another 
word !" 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  and  let  hiiji  depart 
without  another  word.  Otherwise,  she  would 
have  lost  all  control  of  herself — have  flung  des- 
perately at  him  the  secret  which  she  had  kept 
so  long— perhaps  even  have  betrayed  that  oth- 
er, which,  though  only  two  weeks  old,  seemed 
to  have  lasted  for  years.  It  was  the  only  thing 
which  restrained  her  now. 

What  if  any  thing  should  happen — any  thing 
which  might  harm  him — and  she  had  let  him 
go  from  her  in  anger,  had  parted  from  him  in 
this  great  crisis  without  a  word  or  a  kiss  ? 
Present,  her  husband  sometimes  tormented  her 
to  an  unendurable  degree ;  but  absent,  the 
poor  heart  went  back,  often  self-reproachfully, 
to  its  old  fealty,  and  tried  to  think  the  best  of 
him  that  it  could. 

Sitting  at  her  bedroom  window,  Josephine 
listened  to  the  funeral  bell  tolling  across  the 
dreary  common.  It  had  rained  all  day,  but 
there  was  now  a  faint  clearing  up  toward  the 
west,  giving  a  hope  that  the  ceremony — which 
had  been  put  off  as  late  in  the  day  as  possible, 
to  allow  the  poorer  parishioners  to  follow  to  his 
grave  one  who  had  been  to  them  invariably 
charitable  and  kind — might  be  less  gloomy  than 
a  wet  October  funeral  always  is.  She  seemed 
to  see  it  all — to  hear  the  splash  of  the  assem- 
bling feet  in  the  muddy  church-yard,  and  the 
sound  of  her  husband's  voice  reading  impress- 
ively and  sonorously,  "I  am  the  Resurrection 
and  the  Life" — words  which  to  her  as  yet  were 
mere  words,  no  more. 

When  the  bell  ceased,  Bridget  and  the  youn- 
ger children,  who  had  stood  at  the  gate  listen- 
ing, came  in,  and  Mrs.  Scanlan  was  summoned 
to  tea.     Mechanically  she  poured  it  out,  hear- 


112 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


ing  absently  the  talk  around  her,  which  was  at 
first  rather  subdued :  the  little  people  had  al- 
most forgotten  him,  still  they  knew  their  mo- 
ther was  fond  of  Mr.  Oldham.  But  soon  they 
grew  quite  lively  again ;  they  were  always  so 
lively  when  papa  was  out.  And  thus  time 
passed,  Josephine  hardly  knew  how,  till  Bridg- 
et entered  to  ask  if  she  should  bring  in  candles. 
Then  the  intolerable  suspense  became  too 
much  for  human  strength  to  fight  against. 
Come  what  would,  she  must  go  to  the  Rectory. 
Her  two  eldest  boys  had  returned,  having  watch- 
ed the  funeral  from  a  distance,  and  had  settled 
to  their  evening's  employment.  The  natural 
thing  would  have  been  to  say  to  them,  "  Chil- 
dren, your  papa  has  not  come  back ;  I  am  go- 
ing to  meet  him;"  but  then  she  knew  her  boy 
Cesar,  who  had  a  great  idea  of  protecting  his 
mother,  would  insist  upon  accompanying  her. 
So  she  stole  out  of  the  back-door  like  a  thief, 
avoiding  evenBridget,  though  she  fancied  Bridg- 
et saw  her,  and  flew,  rather  than  walked,  in  the 
wind  and  rain  and  darkness,  across  the  com- 
mon and  through  Ditchley  streets.  No  one  was 
abroad ;  the  day  had  been  one  of  those  funeral 
holidays  which  seem  like  Sunday ;  the  shops 
were  still  half-closed,  and  behind  them  Mrs. 


Scanlan  saw  little  groups  sitting,  discussing 
their  good  old  rector,  no  doubt,  and  wonder- 
ing who  would  be  their  new  one. 

Presently  she  found  herself  at  the  Rectory 
gate — the  same  gate  over  which  had  leaned  the 
shrewd,  kind  old  face  when  Mr.  Oldham  had 
said  those  momentous  words  about  her  being 
"his  heiress."  Were  they  true  or  not ?  The 
fact  must  be  known  by  this  time.  And  surely, 
in  that  case,  Mr.  Scanlan  would  have  come 
straight  home.  Why  had  he  not  come  home  ? 
Had  any  thing  happened?  And  a  forewarn- 
ing of  that  daily  fear  which  she  must  hence- 
forth live  in — could  tell  to  no  one,  could  seek 
help  for  from  no  one — struck  through  her  like  a 
bolt  of  ice. 

There  was  but  one  road  to  the  Rectory ;  she 
could  not  have  missed  him ;  he  must  be  still 
there.  But  now  she  had  come  she  dared  not 
go  in.  What  reason  could  she  give  for  her 
coming?  How  explain,  even  to  the  servant 
that  should  open  the  door,  why  she  stood  there, 
drenched  with  rain,  shivering  with  cold  and 
fear,  looking,  she  was  well  aware,  more  like  a 
madwoman  than  the  respectable  curate's  re- 
spectable wife?  No — she  must  wait  a  little 
longer.     Nothing  might  have  happened — nei- 


AT  THE  BEOTOBT  6ATB. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


113 


ther  good  nor  bad:  Mr.  Scanlan  might  have 
just  staid  to  hear  the  will  read,  and  then  gone 
somewhere  or  other  to  spend  the  evening  in- 
stead of  coming  home. 

There  was  a  large  tree  which  overhung  the 
gate :  there  Josephine  sheltered  and  hid  her- 
self, till  the  soaking  rain  dropped  through  the 
thin  leaves.  Years  afterward,  when  she  had 
almost  forgotten  what  it  felt  like  to  walk  in  the 
cold  and  wet,  when  she  went  clad  in  silk  and 
furs,  and  trod  daintily  from  carpeted  halls  to 
cushioned  carriages,  hardly  knowing  what  it 
was  to  be  unattended  or  alone,  Josephine  used 
to  recall,  as  in  a  sort  of  nightmare,  that  poor 
creature — scarcely  herself  at  all — who  crouched 
shivering  under  the  tree  at  the  Rectory  gate ; 
trembling  lest  any  body  should  see  her,  won- 
dering if  even  God  Himself  saw  her,  or  whether 
His  eyes  had  not  long  been  shut  upon  her  and 
her,  misery.  And  the  rain  beat,  and  the  wind 
blew — the  wild,  salt-tasted  wind,  coming  west- 
ward from  the  sea — and,  quarter  after  quarter, 
the  dull  clang  of  Ditchley  church-clock  rang 
out  from  over  the  rector's  newly-closed  grave 
the  hours  that  to  him  were  nothing  now — to 
her,  every  thing. 

It  was  half  past  nine  at  least,  and  she  was 
wet  through  and  through,  yet  still  felt  that 
she  could  not  go  back,  and  that  to  go  forward 
was  equally  impossible,  when  she  heard  wheels 
through  the  dark,  driving  slowly  from  the  house 
to  the  gate.  When  the  light  came,  she  saw  it 
was  Dr.  Waters's  brougham.  He  was  in  it,  and 
some  other  gentleman,  whom  he  seemed  to  be 
supporting. 

Josephine  sprang  to  the  carriage  door,  and 
shook  its  closed  windows  with  such  eager  ap- 
peal that  the  doctor  turned  round  angrily : 

"  Go  away,  woman !  Good  God,  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan !  is  that  you  ?"" 

"  Yes,  it  is  I.     Is  not  that  my  husband  ?" 

A  feeble  voice  answered,  and  a  still  feebler 
Iiand  was  put  out:  "Josephine,  come  in  here. 
I  want  you." 

"Yes,  come  in  at  once.  Take  my  place; 
I  will  walk  home,"  said  Dr.  Waters,  getting 
out,  and  then  told  her  that  Mr.  Scanlan  had 
had  a  slight  fainting-fit;  something  had  oc- 
curred which  startled  him  very  much ;  but  he 
was  much  better  now,  and  would  be  well  di- 
rectly. 

Josephine  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  half- 
bewildered. 

"My  dear  lady,  I  had  better  explain:  it 
was  no  ill  news,  quite  the  contrary ;  and  your 
husband  will  soon  get  over  the  shock  of  it.  I 
wish  you  had  been  here,"  he  added,  a  little 
coldly ;  "  it  was  a  pity,  as  Mr.  Scanlan  says, 
that  your  feelings  did  not  allow  you  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  funeral  and  the  reading  of  the  will, 
as  Langhome  particularly  desired  ;  and  he  was 
the  only  person  who  knew  about  the  matter. 
Mrs.  Scanlan,  I  have  to  congratulate  you.  You 
are  Mr.  Oldham's  heiress." 

Josephine  bent  her  head  assentingly — that 
was  all. 

H 


"It  is  a  very  large  property;  worth  a  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds,  I  should  say.  Except 
a  few  legacies,  it  is  all  yours." 

"Josephine,  do  you  hear?  all  ours!"  gasped 
Mr.  Scanlan,  pressing  forward.  "A  hundred 
thousand  pounds !     We  are  rich — rich  for  life ! " 

Again  she  assented ;  but,  in  truth,  hardly 
did  hear :  she  only  saw  that  gray,  pinched  face, 
drawn  with  pain,  those  shaking  hands,  which 
seemed  already  to  clutch  eagerly  at  the  imagin- 
ary gold. 

With  gentle  force  Dr.  Waters  helped  her  into 
the  carriage,  and  was  gone.  Then  she  took  her 
husband's  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  his  hands 
in  hers ;  thus  they  sat,  without  speaking,  as  the 
carriage  slowly  moved  homeward. 

It  had  come  at  last — this  golden  dream.  As 
Edward  had  said,  they  were  rich — rich  for  life; 
richer  than  in  her  wildest  ambition  she  had  ever 
desired.  She  could  hardly  realize  it  at  all. 
The  fortune  had  come;  but  what  was  the 
worth  of  it — to  her,  or  hers  ? 

By-and-by  her  husband  roused  himself  a  lit- 
tle. "Who  would  have  thought  it,  Josephine? 
I  was  so  startled,  it  quite  knocked  me  over; 
however,  I  am  better  now,  very  much  better. 
Soon  I  shall  come  all  right  and  enjoy  every 
thing," 

"I  hope  so." 

"  But  you — you  speak  so  oddly !  Are  you 
not  delighted  with  our  good  luck? — or  rather 
yours,  for  Mr.  Oldham  has  so  tied  his  money 
up  that  I  can't  touch  it — I  have  almost  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  He  maintained  his  dislike  to 
me  to  the  last.  And  to  think  of  his  saying 
not  a  word  about  what  he  had  done.  Nobody 
knew  but  Langhorne,  unless — "  with  a  sudden 
shrill  suspicion  in  his  tone,  "unless  you  did?" 

In  her  state  of  terrible  suspense,  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan had  not  paused  to  consider  what  course  she 
should  pursue  when  the  suspense  ended,  let  it 
end  either  way ;  nor  had  decided  whether  or 
not  she  should  tell  her  husband  the  whole  cir- 
cumstances, which  were  so  difficult  of  expla- 
nation. Taken  by  surprise,  she  stammered — 
hesitated. 

"  You  did  know — I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  slowly  and  humbly, 
very  humbly.  "Mr.  Oldham  told  me  himself; 
though  I  hardly  believed  it.  Still,  he  did  tell 
me." 

"When?" 

"Seven  years  ago." 

"  Seven  years !  You  have  kept  this  secret 
from  me — your  own  husband — for  seven  years  I 
Josephine,  I'll  never  forgive  you — never  believe 
in  you  and  more." 

And  she — what  could  she  say  ?  To  ask  his 
pardon  would  be  a  mere  pretense,  for  she  felt 
herself  not  guilty ;  to  explain  her  motives  was 
useless,  since  he  could  never  understand  them. 
So  this  "lucky"  husband  and  wife,  whom  all 
Ditchley  was  now  talking  over,  wondering  at 
or  envying  their  good  fortune,  turned  away  from 
one  another,  and  drove  home  to  Wren's  Nest 
together  without  exchanging  another  word. 


lU 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DiTCHLET  opened  its  eyes  wide  with  un- 
feigned astonishment  when  it  learned  that 
its  sometime  curate  was  suddenly  transformed 
into  the  Reverend  Edward  Scanlan  of  Oldham 
Court,  master  of  a  fortune  which,  even  allow- 
ing for  gossiping  exaggerations,  was  still  suf- 
ficient to  make  him  a  county  magnate  for  the 
rest  of  his  days.  True,  his  position  was  in  one 
sense  merely  nominal,  Mr.  Oldham  having  tak- 
en the  precaution  to  tie  the  fortune  safely  up 
in  the  hands  of  two  trustees.  Dr.  Waters  and 
Mr.  Langhorne,  so  that  Mr.  Scanlan  had  little 
more  to  do  than  to  receive  twice  a  year  his  an- 
nual income,  while  the  principal  was  secured  to 
his  wife  and  children.  But  these  arrangements 
were  kept  private,  especially  by  himself;  and 
he  burst  out,  full-blown,  as  the  ostensible  own- 
er of  one  of  the  finest  estates  and  most  pictur- 
esque mansions  in  the  county. 

Oldham  Court,  one  of  the  few  Elizabethan 
houses  now  remaining  in  England,  had  re- 
mained, almost  unaltered,  both  within  and 
without,  for  generations.  Its  late  possessor  had 
never  lived  in  it — tut  had  carefully  preserved 
it,  just  as  it  was — letting  the  land  round  it  to  a 
gentleman-farmer,  and  by  good  management 
doubling  the  value  of  the  property.  The  house 
itself,  with  the  little  church  adjoining,  wherein 
slept  generations  of  Oldhams,  was  far  away 
from  town  or  village :  Ditchley,  eleven  miles 
oiF,  being  its  nearest  link  to  civilization.  But 
it  sat  in  the  midst  of  a  lovely  country,  hilly 
though  not  bleak,  solitary  yet  not  dreary — the 
sort  of  region  to  which  any  lover  of  nature  is 
speedily  attracted,  and  loves  with  a  strong  ad- 
hesiveness that  people  who  live  in  streets  and 
squares,  or  in  neighborhoods  without  any  sali- 
ent characteristics,  can  not  in  the  least  under- 
stand. And  though  Mr.  Oldham  had  never 
resided  there — at  least  never  since  he  had  in- 
herited it — from  the  wording  of  his  last  will  he 
had  evidently  loved  it  much. 

In  his  will  he  expressly  desired  that  the 
Scanlans  should  immediately  remove  thither : 
that,  unless  upon  great  emergency,  it  should 
neither  be  sold  nor  rebuilt,  but  that  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan should  inhabit  it  just  as  it  was  as  long  as 
she  lived.  That,  in  short,  it  should  be  made 
into  the  family  home  of  a  new  family,  which 
should  replace  the  extinct  Oldhams. 

To  account  for  his  having  chosen  Mrs.  Scan- 
lan as  his  heiress,  various  old  tales  were  raked 
up,  and  added  as  excrescences  to  the  obvious 
truth — such  as  Mr.  Oldham's  having  been  once 
in  love  with  a  Frenchwoman,  Mrs.  Scanlan-s 
mother,  or  aunt,  or  cousin — nobody  quite  knew 
which.  There  might  or  might  not  have  been 
a  grain  of  fact  at  the  bottom  of  these  various 
fictions ;  but  they  were  never  verified ;  and 
common-sense  people  soon  took  the  common- 
sense  view  of  the  subject :  namely,  that  when  a 
man  has  no  heirs  he  is  quite  right  in  choosing 
for  himself  what  Providence  has  denied  him, 
and  endowing  with  his  fortune  the  most  suit- 


able person  he  can  find  :  who  is  also  the  one  to 
whom  it  will  do  most  good,  and  who  will  do 
most  good  with  it.  And  these  qualifications 
— every  one  agreed — were  combined  in  Mrs. 
Scanlan. 

It  was  a  curious  fact,  showing  how  in  course 
of  years  all  people  find  their  level — even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  outside  world — that  no  surprise  was 
expressed  at  Ditchley  because  Mr.  Oldham  left 
his  fortune  to  Mrs.  Scanlan  rather  than  to  her 
husband ;  indeed  some  people  sagely  remarked 
"that  it  was  just  as  well."  This  was  all ;  for 
Mr.  Scanlan  still  retained  much  of  his  old  pop- 
ularity; and,  besides,  many  who  would  have 
been  ready  enough  to  criticise  the  poor  curate 
at  Wren's  Nest,  looked  with  lenient  eyes  on  the 
master  of  Oldham  Court. 

The  migration  was  accomplished  speedily ; 
Mr.  Scanlan  himself  taking  little  part  therein. 
He  was  in  feeble  health  for  some  weeks  after 
the  shock  of  his  good  fortune ;  so  that  he  had  , 
to  leave  to  his  wife  the  management  of  every 
thing.  He  left  to  her,  almost  without  a  single 
inquiry,  the  management  of  one  thing — which, 
with  terrified  haste,  she  accomplished  within 
the  first  few  days  of  her  new  inheritance.  She 
got  possession  of  the  school  accounts,  went  over 
them,  found  the  exact  amount  of  her  husband's 
defalcations,  and  replaced  it  out  of  a  sum  which 
she  obtained  from  her  trustees  for  her  own  im- 
mediate use.  Then  she  breathed  freely.  There 
had  been  but  a  hair's-breadth  between  her  and 
ruin — that  utter  ruin  which  lost  honor  brings  , 
but  the  crisis  was  over,  and  she  had  escaped. 

He  had  escaped,  that  is ;  but  she  had  ceased 
to  divide,  even  in  thought,  her  own  and  her 
husband's  fortunes.  The  strong  line  which 
needs  to  be  drawn  between  deliberate  wicked- 
ness and  mere  weakness  —  even  though  they 
often  arrive  at  the  same  sad  end — she  now  saw 
clear.  She  never  for  a  moment  disguised  from 
herself  what  sort  of  a  man  Edward  Scanlan  was 
— but  as  long  as  she  oould  protect  him  from 
himself,  and  protect  her  children  from  him,  she 
did  not  fear. 

It  was  with  a  full  heart — fuller  than  any  body 
dreamed  of — that  she  left  Wren's  Nest  and  its 
associations  behind  forever.  The  very  words 
"for  ever"  seemed  to  hallow  them,  and  make 
her  shrink  with  pain  when  Mr.  Scanlan  declared 
that  he  "shook  the  dust  of  it  from  off"  his  feet, 
and  hoped  he  might  never  again  re-enter  that 
horrid  hole."  But  she  said  nothing ;  and  drove 
by  her  husband's  side,  in  their  own  comfortable 
carriage,  across  the  smiling  country,  to  the  old 
gateway  of  Oldham  Court. 

It  so  chanced  she  had  never  seen  the  place 
before.  Mr.  Oldham  had  sometimes  planned 
to  take  her  there,  but  the  visit  had  never  come 
about ;  now,  at  the  very  first  sight,  her  heart 
leaped  to  it,  as  to  the  ideal  home  for  which  she 
had  been  craving  all  her  days.  Gray,  quiet, 
lonely — with  its  quaint  old-fashioned  gables, 
and  long  low  Tudor  windows — no  palatial  res- 
idence or  baronial  hall,  but  just  a  hou^ — a^ 
house  to  live  in ;    and  to  live  in  conteniedly 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


.116 


till  one  died — Josephine  felt  with  a  sudden 
thrill  of  ineflable  thankfulness  that  here  indeed 
was  her  rest-,  where  no  storms  could  come,  and 
out  of  which  no  cruel  hands  would  uproot  Ker 
again.  For  surely  now  her  husband  would  be 
satisfied.     She  asked  him  the  question. 

"Satisfied?  Well — yes.  A  nice  house; 
but  rather  queer-looking  and  old-fashioned. 
What  a  pity  we  are  obliged  to  keep  it  as  it  is, 
and  can  not  pull  it  down  and  build  it  up  afresh 
as  a  modern  residence ! " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  was  all  Mrs.  Scanlan  re- 
plied.    She  never  argued  with  her  husband  now. 

At  the  door  stood  all  her  children  waiting — 
a  goodly  group ;  justifying  Mr.  uldham's  choice 
of  the  family  which  should  succeed  his  own. 
Behind  them  was  an  array  of  new  servants, 
men  and  women,  with  Bridget  at  their  head-'— 
Bridget,  now  promoted  to  "Mrs.  Halloran," 
and  having  with  true  Irish  adaptability  taken 
her  place  at  once  as  confidential  servant  and 
follower  of  the  family.  A  position  greatly 
against  her  master's  liking:  indeed  he  had 
proposed  pensioning  her  off,  and  dispatching 
her  at  once  to  Ireland,  till  he  considered  that 
a  "follower"  implied  a  "family;"  and  to  be 
able  to  speak  of  "our  housekeeper,  who  has 
been  with  us  twenty  years,"  gave  a  certain 
character  of  antique  respectability  to  his  estab- 
lishment. Therefore,  as  he  passed  her  in  her 
black  silk  dress  and  neat  cap — Bridget  was, 
especially  in  her  latter  days,  that  rare  but  not 
impossible  anomaly,  a  tidy  Irishwoman — he 
acknowledged  her  courtesy  with  a  patronizing 
"  How  d'ye  do  ?"  and  said  no  more  concerning 
her  proposed  dismissal. 

Theoretically  and  poetically,  the  sudden  trans- 
lation from  poverty  to  riches  is  quite  easy,  nat- 
ural, and  agreeable ;  practically  it  is  not  so. 
Let  a  family  be  ever  so  refined  and  aristocratic, 
still  if  it  has  been  brought  up  in  indigence,  its 
habits  will  have  caught  some  tinge  of  the  un- 
toward circumstances  through  which  it  has  had 
to  struggle.  I  once  knew  a  lady  who  confessed 
that  slic  found  it  difficult  to  learn  to  order  her 
servant  to  "bring  candles,"  instead  of  "the 
candle;"  and  no  doubt  the  Scanlan  family  on 
its  first  accession  to  wealth  were  exposed  to 
similar  perplexities. 

The  younger  branches,  especially,  found  their 
splendid  new  shoes  rather  troublesome  wear.  I 
Accustomed  to  the  glorious  freedom  of  poverty,  | 
they  writhed  a  little  under  their  gilded  chains.  } 
They  quarreled  with  the  new  nurses,  made  fun  • 
of  the  dignified  butler  and  footman,  and  alto-  j 
gether  gave  so  much  trouble  that  it  was  a  re- 
lief when,  Cesar  having  already  gone  to  Oxford, 
the  two  other  boys  were  sent  off  to  school,  and 
the  three  girls  alone  remained  to  brighten  Old- 
ham Court.     But  with  these,  despite  all  their 
father's  arguments  about  the  propriety  of  send- 
ing them  to  a  fashionable  London  boarding- 
school,  the  mother  point-blank  refused  to  part. 
A  governess  was  procured — the  best  attainable : 
and^  so  the  domestic  chaos  was  gradually  re- 
duced to  order. 


This  done,  and  when  she  grew  accustomed 
to  see  her  children  in  their  new  position — no 
longer  running  wild  like  village  boys  and  girls, 
but  well-dressed,  well-taught,  and  comporting 
themselves  like  a  gentleman's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters— their  mother's  heart  swelled  with  exult- 
ant joy.  Her  seven  years  of  terrible  suspense 
seemed  blotted  out :  and  the  future — her  chil- 
dren's future,  for  she  had  long  ceased  to  have 
any  other — stretched  itself  out  before  her  clear 
as  a  sunshiny  landscape.  The  happiness  was 
worth  the  pain. 

It  had  only  been  her  own  pain  after  all. 
Now,  she  sometimes  smiled,  half  bitterly,  to 
think  what  useless  pangs  had  wrung  her  tender 
conscience  about  keeping  that  secret  from  her 
husband.  He  himself  did  not  seem  to  feel  it 
in  the  least.  After  the  first  outburst  of  wound- 
ed vanity  he  had  never  once  referred  to  the 
subject ;  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  quite  lost 
sight  of  it.  To  do  him  justice,  he  was  not  one 
to  "bear  malice,"  as  the  phrase  is;  he  forgot 
his  injuries  as  quickly  as  he  did  his  blessings. 
Besides,  so  many  sensitive  troubles  are  avoided, 
and  so  many  offenses  condoned,  by  people  whose 
law  of  conduct  is — not  what  is  right  or  wrong, 
but  what  is  expedient. 

Therefore,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  full  health, 
which  he  did  to  all  appearance  ere  long,  Mr. 
Scanlan  begun  to  enjoy  his  changed  fortunes 
amazingly ;  accepting  them  not  so  much  as  a 
gift,  but  a  debt  long  owed  to  him  by  a  tardy 
Providence.  Within  a  few  months — nay,  weeks 
— he  had  ignored  his  Ditchley  life  as  complete- 
ly as  the  butterfly  does  his  chrysalis  exuviae, 
and  burst  out  full-winged  as  the  master  of  Old- 
ham Court.  He  talked  about  "  my  place"  as 
if  he  had  possessed  it  all  his  days ;  only  grum- 
bling sometimes  at  the  house  itself — its  dullness, 
its  distance  from  any  town,  and,  above  all,  its 
old-fashionedness.  Edward  Scanlan,  who  had 
been  brought  up  in  that  phase  of  modern  lux- 
ury in  which  the  cost  of  a  thing  constitutes  its 
sole  value,  did  not  approve  of  the  Gothic  style 
at  all.  : 

But  to  his  wife,  from  the  first  minute  she 
crossed  its  threshold,  Oldham  Court  felt  like 
home — her  home  till  death,  and  that  of  her  de- 
scendants after  her.  For  she  had  come  to  that 
time  of  life  when  we  begin  involuntarily  to  look 
forward  to  our  own  secession  in  favor  of  the 
young,  coming  lives,  who  will  carry  on  into 
futurity  this  dream  of  our  life — which  already 
begins  to  seem  to  us  "like  a  shadow  that  de- 
parteth" — and  backward  on  those  past  genera- 
tions to  whom  we  shall  ere  long  descend.  Thus, 
even  while  thinking  of  her  children  and  chil- 
dren's children  who  would  inherit  this  place, 
Josephine,  wandering  about  it,  often  saw  it 
peopled  with  innumerable  gentle  ghosts,  into 
whose  empty  seats  her  bright,  living,  young 
flock  had  climbed.  She  felt  a  great  tenderness 
over  these  long-dead  Oldhams  ;  and  took  pains 
to  identify  and  preserve  the  family  portraits 
which  still  hung  in  hall  and  staircase.  In  her 
idle  hours,  only  too  numerous  now,  she  liked  to 


116 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


go  and  sit  in  the  little  church,  which  was  so 
close  to  the  house  that,  much  to  her  husband's 
horror,  one  of  the  dining-room  windows  looked 
on  to  the  church-yard.  He  had  it  boarded  up 
immediately ;  but  still,  from  her  bedroom  case- 
ment, Josephine  would,  of  moonlight  nights,  or 
in  early  sunrises,  gaze  upon  that  tiny  God's  acre, 
and  think,  almost  with  a  sense  of  pleasure,  that 
she  should  one  day  be  buried  there. 

These  vanished  Oldhams,  they  slept  in  peace 
— from  the  cross-legged  Crusader  with  his 
hound  at  his  feet,  to  the  two  medieval  spouses, 
kneeling,  headless,  side  by  side,  and  behind 
each  a  long  train  of  offspring ;  and  then  on 
through  many  generations  to  the  last  one — Mr. 
Oldham's  father,  over  whom  a  very  ugly  angel, 
leaning  on  a  draperied  arm,  kept  watch  and 
ward.  Mrs.  Scanlan  often  amused  herself  with 
making  out  the  inscriptions,  old  English  or 
I^tin — she  had  taught  herself  Latin  to  teach 
her  boys.  These  epitaphs  were  touching  me- 
morials of  a  family  which,  though  not  exactly 
noble,  had  been  evidently  honorable  and  hon- 
ored to  the  last.  Necessarily  so,  or  it  could 
not  have  kept  itself  so  long  afloat  on  the  deep 
sea  of  oblivion ;  for  it  is  astonishing  how  quick- 
ly a  race  which  has  in  it  the  elements  of  degra- 
dation and  decay  can  dwindle  down  from  no- 
bility to  obscurity. 

As  she  pondered  over  these  relics  of  an  ex- 
tinct but  not  degenerate  race,  Josephine  felt 
stirring  strangely  in  her  the  blood  of  the  old 
De  Bougainvilles.  The  desire  to  found,  or  to 
revive,  a  family;  to  live  again  after  death  in 
our  unknown  descendants ;  to  plan  for  them, 
toil  for  them,  and  bequeath  to  them  the  fruit  of 
our  toils — a  passion  for  which  many  men  have 
sacrificed  so  much — came  into  this  woman's 
heart  with  a  force  such  as  few  men  could  un- 
derstand, because  thereto  was  added  the  in- 
stinct of  motherhood.  Her  ambition — for,  as 
I  have  said,  she  was  ambitious  —  quenched 
inevitably  as  regarded  the  present,  passed  on 
to  the  days  when,  she  and  their  father  sleeping 
in  peace  together,  her  children  should  succeed 
to  those  possessions  which  she  herself  could 
never  fully  enjoy.  Especially  she  used  to  dream 
of  the  time  "when  Cesar,  reigning  in  her  stead, 
should  be  master  of  Oldham  Court. 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "my  son" — she  usually 
called  her  eldest  boy  "  my  son" — "  must  marry 
early:  he  will  be  able  to  afford  it.  And  he 
must  choose  some  girl  after  my  own  heart,  to 
whom  I  will  be  such  a  good  mother-in-law. 
And  oh !  how  proud  I  shall  be  of  the  third 
generation  !" 

Thus  planned  she— thus  dreamed  she :  look- 
ing far  into  the  future,  with  stone-blind  eyes,  as 
we  all  of  us  look.  Still,  I  think  it  made  her  hap- 
py— happier  than  she  had  been  for  many  years. 

One  little  cloud,  however,  soon  rose  on  her 
bright  horizon :  strangely  bright  now,  for  in 
the  sudden  novelty  of  things,  in  the  great  relief 
and  ease  of  his  present  lot,  and  in  his  power  of 
getting  every  luxury  he  wished  for,  even  Mr. 
Kcanlan  seemed  to  have  taken  a  new  turn,  and 


to  give  his  wife  no  trouble  whatever.  He  was 
actually  contented!  He  ceased  to  find  fault 
with  any  thing,  became  amenable  to  reason, 
and  absolutely  affectionate.  His  good  angel — 
who,  I  suppose,  never  quite  deserts  any  man — 
stood  behind  him,  shaking  ambrosial  odors  over 
him,  and  consequently  over  the  whole  family, 
for  at  least  three  months  after  their  change  of 
fortune. 

And  then  the  little  cloud  arose.  The  three 
Misses  Scanlan,  now  requiring  to  be  educated 
up  to  the  level  of  the  county  families,  among 
whose  young  ladies  they  would  have  to  take 
their  place,  were  put  under  a  first-rate  govern- 
ess, who  had,  decessarily,  a  rather  forcing  sys- 
tem. It  worked  well  with  Gabrielle  and  Cath- 
erine—  clever,  handsome,  healthy  creatures, 
who  learned  wholesomely  and  fast — but  with 
Adrienne,  now  nearly  old  enough  to  enter  so- 
ciety, the  case  was  altogether  different. 

Alas,  poor  Adrienne  !  she  would  never  be  a 
show  daughter  to  introduce  into  the  world.  She 
was  neither  a  bright  girl  nor  a  pretty  girl ;  nay, 
her  appearance  was  almost  worse  than  insig- 
nificant, for  her  poor  weak  spine  had  grown  a 
little  awry,  and  stooping  over  her  studies  made 
it  much  worse.  Already  she  required  to  Ijave 
her  figure  padded  and  disguised  in  various 
ingenious  ways,  which  took  all  her  mother's 
French  skill  to  devise  ;  and  already  her  gentle 
pale  face  had  that  sad  look  peculiar  to  deformed 
people. 

Of  that  she  herself  was  painfully  conscious. 
Beside  her  mother's  stately  dignity,  and  her 
sister  Gabrielle's  reed-like  grace,  she  knew  well 
how  ill  she  looked,  and  this  made  her  shy  and 
shrinking  from  society.  Other  things,  which 
she  was  only  too  quick  to  find  out,  added  to 
this  feeling. 

"I  can't  imagine  why  you  are  always  want- 
ing Adrienne  in  the  drawing-room,"  her  father 
would  say,  not  always  out  of  the  girl's  hearing. 
"She  does  not  care  to  come,  and  really  she  is 
not  very  ornamental.  Keep  her  in  the  shade 
— by  all  means  keep  her  in  the  shade." 

And  into  the  shade  Adrienne  instinctively 
retired,  even  from  the  first  day  she  set  foot  in 
Oldham  Court,  especially  when  there  happened 
to  be  visitors — a  circumstance  that  occurred 
seldom  enough — which  much  surprised  and 
displeased  Mr.  Scanlan. 

"  Of  course  every  body  will  call  upon  us — 
all  the  county  families,  I  mean,"  he  kept  say- 
ing ;  and  impressed  upon  his  wife  that  at  cer- 
tain hours  every  day  she  was  to  sit  prepared 
for  their  reception.  Indeed,  he  was  always 
laying  down  the  law  of  etiquette  for  her  in  mi- 
nute things,  and  telling  her  that  she  did  not 
properly  recognize  her  position.  "For,  my 
dear,  you  have  been  so  long  out  of  the  world 
— if,  indeed,  you  were  ever  fairly  in  it— that 
you  can  not  be  expected  to  understand  the 
ways  of  society  as  I  do." 

"Possibly  not,"  she  would  answer,  half 
amused,  yet  with  a  lurking  sarcasm  in  her 
smile.     But  she  obeyed,  for  it  really  was  not 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


117 


worth  her  while  to  disobey.  She  never  cared 
to  quarrel  over  small  things. 

Visitors  came  :  only,  alas !  they  were  prin- 
cipally Ditchley  people,  driving  over  in  hired 
flys  and  pony-chaises ;  not  a  single  carriage 
and  pair  had  as  yet  passed  under  the  Gothic 
gateway.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Scanlan  wel- 
comed her  guests  with  all  sorts  of  kindly  atten- 
tions. 

"Why  should  I  not?"  said  she,  when  her 
husband  remonstrated ;  "they  were  friendly  to 
me  when  I  was  poor.  Bosides,  they  are  all 
worthy  people,  and  I  like  them." 

"Which  are  not  sufficient  reasons  for  culti- 
vating them,  and  I  desire  that  they  may  not  be 
cultiva*ted  any  more  than  you  can  help,"  said 
Mr.  Scanlan,  with  the  slightly  dictatorial  tone 
which  he  sometimes  used  now. 

Josephine  flushed  up,  but  made  no  answer. 
Indeed,  she  rarely  did  make  answers  now  to 
things  oPwhich  she  disapproved.  It  was  as- 
tonishing Ijow  little  of  actual  conversation — the 
rational,  pleasant,  and  improving  talk  which 
even  husbands  and  wives  can  sometimes  find 
time  to  indulge  in,  and  which  makes  the  quiet- 
est life  a  continual  entertainment — passed  be- 
tween this  husband  and  wife,  who  had  been 
married  so  many  years. 

Just  when  his  eager  expectation  of  visitors — 
suitable  visitors — had  changed  into  angiy  sur- 
prise that  they  neVer  came,  Mr.  Scanlan  en- 
tered the  house  one  day  in  eager  excitement. 
He  had  met  on  the  road  the  two  young  sons  of 
his  nearest  neighbor,  the  Earl  of  Turbei-ville, 
coming  to  call,  they  said,  and  ask  permission 
to  shoot  over  his  preserves. 

"I  should  have  invited  them  to  lunch,  but 
I  feared  you  would  not  have  it  nice  enough ; 
however,  they  have  promised  to  come  to-mor- 
row— both  Lord  Cosmo  and  Lord  Charles.  So 
be  sure,  Josephine,  that  you  have  every  thing 
in  apple-pie  order,  and  dress  yourself  elegant- 
ly" (he  still,  when  excited,  pronounced  it  "  ili- 
gantly").  "For  who  knows  but  the  Earl  and 
Countess  themselves  might  come.  Lord  Cos- 
mo said  he  knew  his  father  had  something  very 
particular  to  say  to  me." 

And  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours  poor  Mr. 
Scanlan  was  in  a  perpetual  fidget,  worrying 
his  butler  and  footman,  till  they  civilly  hint- 
ed that  they  had  always  lived  in  high  families, 
and  knew  their  own  business;  and  especially 
worrying  his  wife,  who  did  not  participate  in 
this  idolatrous  worship  of  rank  and  title,  which 
had  always  been  a  strong  characteristic  of  the 
Irish  curate.  Long  before  luncheon  time  he 
insisted  upon  her  taking  her  seat  in  the  draw- 
ing-room :  dressed — with  elegance,  certainly — 
though  with  not  half  the  splendor  he  desired. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  sighing;  "you  may  take  a 
horse  to  the  water,  but  yon  can't  make  him 
drink.  I  fear,  Josephine,  I  shall  never  suc- 
ceed in  raising  you  to  the  level  of  your  present 
position.     I  give  you  up!" 

The  hour  arrived,  but  not  the  guests ;  and, 
after  waiting  till  three  o'clock,  Mrs.  Scanlan 


insisted  on  going  in  to  luncheon.  She  had 
scarcely  taken  her  place  there  when  the  two 
lads  entered — rather  roughly-clad  and  roughly- 
behaved  lads,  any  thing  but  young  lords,  ap- 
parently, until  they  caught  sight  of  the  lady  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  Then  their  instinctive 
good-breeding  told  them  that  they  had  been 
guilty  of  a  discourtesy  and  a  mistake.  They 
were  full  of  apologies,  Lord  Cosmo  especially, 
for  being  so  unwarrantably  late  ;  but  they  gave 
no  reason  for  their  tardiness,  and  neither  made 
a  single  excuse  for  the  non-appearance  of  the 
Earl  and  Countess — indeed,  seemed  not  to  have 
an  idea  that  these  latter  were  expected.  Nor 
did  Josephine  refer  to  the  fact,  being  long  ac- 
customed to  her  husband's  great  powers  of  im- 
agination. 

She  rather  liked  the  youths,  who  were  fresh 
from  Eton — pleasant,  gentlemanly  fellows,  and 
conversation  soon  became  easy  and  general. 
Lord  Cosmo  tried  in  various  quiet  ways  to  find 
out  who  Mrs.  Scanlan  was,  and  how  she  came 
to  inherit  Oldham  Court.  At  last  he  put  the 
question  whether  she  was  not  distantly  related 
to  Mr.  Oldham  ;  and  when  his  curiosity  gained 
only  a  brief  No,  he  covered  his  confusion  by 
darting  into  a  long  explanation  of  how  the  Old- 
hams  and  Turbervilles  were  the  two  most  an- 
cient families  in  the  county,  and  had  gone  on 
quarreling,  intermarrying,  and  quarreling  again, 
ever  since  William  the  Conqueror. 

"  They  were  Saxons  and  we  Normans,  so  we 
could  not  help  fighting,  you  know." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Scanlan,  and 
turned  the  conversation  by  some  unimportant 
remark ;  but  Mr.  Scanlan  brought  it  back  ea- 
gerly. 

"  My  wife  also  is  of  Norman  descent.  She 
comes  of  the  Vicomtes  de  Bougainville — a  very 
old  and  honorable  family." 

"Oh!"  replied  the  young  man;  and  added, 
with  a  slight  bow,  "  Cela  va  sans  dire." 

"What  was  that  your  lordship  said?"  in- 
quired the  host,  eagerly ;  but  the  hostess,  with 
a  hot  cheek  —  alas !  her  cheeks  burned  very 
often  during  that  afternoon  —  stopped  the  an- 
swer by  inquiring  if  Lord  Cosmo  had  ever  been 
in  France,  and  so  leading  the  talk  widely  astray 
from  herself  and  her  ancestors. 

Calm  as  she  sat — looking,  in  her  fine  Gothic 
dining-hall,  like  a  medieval  picture  —  she  sat, 
nevertheless,  upon  thorns  the  whole  time;  for 
it  was  the  first  time  for  many  years  that  she 
had  seen  her  husband  as  he  appeared  in  gen- 
eral society,  and  the  sight  was  not  agreeable. 
The  court  suit  of  prosperity  is  only  becoming 
to  courtly  figures.  Many  a  man,  decent  enough 
in  common  broadcloth,  when  dressed  up  in  vel- 
vet and  point  lace,  looks  painfully  like  a  foot- 
man. Corporeally — or  I  should  say  sartorially 
— fate  had  denied  Mr.  Scanlan  the  pleasure  of 
wearing  bright  colors — "Once  a  clergyman,  al- 
ways a  clergyman"  being,  unfortunately,  En- 
glish law.  But  in  his  manners  he  assumed  a 
costume  of  startling  vividness  and  variety.  "All 
things  to  all  men,"  was  his  maxim,  and  he  car 


18 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


ried  it  out  with  great  unction ;  appearing  by 
turns  as  the  gentleman  of  fashion,  of  wealth, 
and  of  family;  never  knowing  exactly  which 
character  to  assume,  for  all  were  equally  as- 
sumptions, and  equally  unfamiliar.  The  sim- 
ple plan  of  avoiding  all  difficulties,  by  being  al- 
ways one's  own  honest  self,  did  not  occur  to  this 
ingenious  Irishman. 

He  could  not  help  it — it  was  his  nature.  But 
it  was  none  the  less  painful  to  those  belonging 
to  him.  People  tell  of  the  penitential  horse- 
hair which  lovely  women  have  worn  under  their 
velvet  and  minever,  cambric  and  lawn.  I  think 
I  could  tell  of  one  woman  who  knew  what  it 
was  to  wear  it  too. 

When  the  guests  and  Mr.  Scanlan  had  quit- 
ted the  drawing-room,  Adrienne  crept  in  there, 
and  her  mother,  who  was  standing  at  the  win- 
dow watching  the  shadows  come  and  go  over 
the  hill-sides,  wistfully — as  we  look  at  a  view 
that  we  hope  to  watch  unchanged  until  we  die 
— felt  her  daughter  take  her  hand.  She  turned 
round  immediately. 

"My  little  girl!"  stroking  her  hair — Adri- 
enne had  very  pretty  hair ;  Bridget  often  used 
to  speak  of  it  with  sad  pride — "  My  little  girl, 
I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  be  married !  I  almost 
hope  not."  Then  she  added,  quickly,  "Be- 
cause I  should  miss  you  so ;  and,  besides,  wo- 
men can  live  quite  happily  without  ever  being 
married." 

"  I  know  they  can ;  above  all  when  they  have 
got  such  a  dear  mother  to  live  for  as  mine," 
said  Adrienne,  tenderly,  but  turning  rosy-red 
as  she  spoke ;  so  that  Mrs.  Scanlan,  a  little 
surprised  at  the  child's  sensitiveness,  changed 
the  conversation  immediately.  She  even  re- 
pented having  alluded  to  a  subject  upon  which 
Adrienne  could  as  yet  only  have  theorized. 
Though  she  was  nearly  seventeen,  she  Avas  still 
very  childish ;  and  she  had  scarcely  spoken  to 
a  young  man  in  her  life — except  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes,  who,  compared  with  her,  was  not  a  young 
man  at  all.  • 

This  Mr.  Summerhayes,  the  great  bugbear 
of  Josephine's  married  life,  had  apparently  quite 
disappeared  from  her  horizon.  Among  the 
congratulatory  letters  which  had  reached  them 
of  late  was  one  from  him,  but  Mr.  Scanlan  had 
read  it  and  put  it  in  the  fire,  and  "  wondered 
how  the  fellow  could  presume,"  so  no  more  was 
said  upon  the  matter.  She  learned  accident- 
ally that  the  artist  was  living  from  hand  to 
mouth  at  Rome,  or  some  other  Italian  city,  so 
she  had  no  fear  that,  in  their  present  circum- 
stances, he  would  be  any  longer  a  snare  to  her 
husband.  Nay,  she  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him, 
scamp  as  he  was,  remembering  all  his  amusing 
ways  at  Wren's  Nest,  when  they  were  as  poor 
as  he  was  now.  In  the  almost  preternatural 
calm  which  brooded  over  her  life  now — at  least, 
her  external  life — she  could  afford  to  be  pitiful 
even  to  a  poor  scoundrel. 

Mr.  Scanlan  came  back  in  the  highest  spirits, 
having  seen  his  guests  away  on  their  horses,  and 
exhibited  his  own,  which  were  far  finer  animals. 


"  And  they  owned  it,  too,  both  Lord  Cosmo 
and  Lord  Charles,  and  wished  they  had  as 
good ;  but  the  Earl  is  as  poor  as  a  rat,  every 
body  knows.  Exceedingly  nice  young  fellows 
their  lordships  are !  and  I  hope  we  shall  see  a 
great  deal  of  them.  You  must  be  sure  to  be 
at  home,  Josephine,  when  the  Countess  calls. 
These  are  the  sort  of  friends  that  we  ought  to 
make.  Not  your  horrid,  commonplace.  Ditch- 
ley  people ;  who  were  well  enough  once,  but 
don't  suit  us  now,  and  will  suit  us  less  and  less, 
I  prophesy.  Ha — ha — my  dear,  you  don't  know 
what  I  know.  HoV  should  you  like  me  to  get 
a  handle  to  my  name  ?  What  do  you  say  to 
being  called  '  My  lady  ?' " 

He  took  his  wife  round  the  waist  and  4vissed 
her  with  considerable  excitement. 

"  Edward,"  she  answered,  in  her  quietest  and 
gentlest  tone,  "sit  down  here  and  tell  me  what 
you  mean." 

With  difficulty,  and  at  first  entire  increduli- 
ty, ehe  got  out  of  him  something  which,  though 
it  seeined  to  her  too  ridiculous  seriously  to  be- 
lieve, was  yet  a  possibility;  and  a  note,  or 
memorandum,  which  her  husband  showed  her, 
which  at  the  last  minute  had  been  given  him 
by  Lord  Cosmo,  confirmed  it  as  a  possibility. 
Lord  Turberville,  though  very  poor,  was  a  keen 
politician,  and  deeply  in  the  confidence  of  the 
government,  to  whom,  as  well  as  to  himself,  it 
was  necessary  to  secure  the  influence  of  the 
large  landowners  of  the  county.  Among  these, 
almost  the  largest  was  the  owner  of  the  Oldham 
Court  estates.  His  lordship  had,  therefore,  con- 
cocted a  scheme  for  selecting  Mr.  Scanlan  as 
the  most  suitable  person  to  go  up  to  London, 
as  head  of  a  deputation  to  present  an  address 
on  a  certain  expected  Royal  event — I  am  in- 
tentionally obscure  as  to  what  that  event  was — 
the  presenters  of  which  address  generally  re- 
ceived the  honor  of  knighthood.  It  was  a  "job," 
of  course ;  but  not  worse  than  hundreds  of  po- 
litical jobs  which  are  perpetrated  every  day  in 
our  free  and  independent  country ;  and  Mr, 
Scanlan  was  delighted  with  the  idea,  nor  in  the 
least  astonished  that  such  a  tribute  should  be 
paid  to  his  own  exceeding  merit. 

"And  what  shall  I  answer  the  Earl?"  said 
he,  when  he  had  expended  his  raptures  on  the 
advantages  in  store  for  him. 

"  Have  you  answered  ?"  his  wife  asked,  with 
a  keen  look. 

"  Well — to  tell  the  truth — as  I  never  imagined 
you  would  be  so  foolish  as  to  object  to  the  thing, 
I  sent  word  to  Lord  Turberville — " 

"Yes,  yes — I  understand.  You  have  an- 
swered. Then  why  go  through  the  form  of 
consulting  me  on  the  subject  ?" 

It  was  one  of  his  small  shams,  his  petty  cow- 
ardlinesses, which  so  irritated  this  woman,  who 
would  any  day  rather  have  been  struck  on  the 
cheek  openly,  than  secretly  stung  to  the  heart. 
But  it  had  to  be  borne,  and  it  was  borne.  As 
to  the  thing  itself — the  question  as  to  whether 
or  not  she  should  be  called  "  my  lady'' — she  did 
not,  in  truth,  care  two  straws  about  it.     I  think 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


119 


she  would  have  been  proud,  exceedingly  proud, 
had  her  husband  earned  a  title  in  some  noble 
way ;  but  in  this  way — for  she  saw  through  the 
mysteries  of  the  matter  at  once — it  affected  her 
in  no  possible  degree. 

"  Do  as  you  like,"  she  said.  *'  It  is  much  the 
same  to  me  whether  I  am  Mrs.  or  Lady  Scanlan . " 

"Scanlan!  ah,  that  is  the  nuisance!  Ours 
is  such  a  horrid  common  name.  If  Mr.  Oldham 
had  only  given  us  his  own — Lord  Cosmo  ex- 
pressed surprise  that  he  did  not.  Don't  you 
think,  Josephine,  we  could  assume  it?" 

Josephine  regarded  her  husband  with  un- 
feigned astonishment.  "No;  certainly  not. 
If  he  had  wished  it,  he  would  certainly  have 
said  so.  Besides,  to  give  up  your  own  name — 
your  father's  name — " 

"Oh — but  the  old  man  is  dead;  he'll  never 
know  it.  And  what  did  well  enough  for  my 
father  is  diflferent  for  me.  I  have  risen  in  the 
world ;  and  who  cares  for  my  antecedents  ? 
Indeed,  the  less  we  speak  of  them  the  better." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Josephine  once 
more.  And  there  flashed  upon  her  the  remem- 
brance of  the  kind  old  woman — certainly  not  a 
lady,  but  a  true,  kind  woman,  whose  grandmo- 
therly arms  had  received  her  own  first-born 
babe ;  and  of  the  old  man,  who,  common  and 
vulgar  as  he  was,  had  yet  a  heart,  for  it  had 
broken  with  grief  at  having  reduced  to  poverty 
his  wife  and  only  son.  These  two  in  their  life- 
time Josephine  had  not  loved  much ;  had  only 
put  up  with  them  for  the  sake  of  her  Edward ; 
but  she  recalled  them  affectionately  now.  And 
even  for  herself,  the  years  she  had  borne  the 
name,  through  weal  and  woe — alas !  more  woe 
than  weal — seemed  to  consecrate  it  in  her  eyes. 
"No,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "do  not 
let  us  change  our  name:  I  could  never  fancy 
myself  any  thing  but  Mrs.  Scanlan." 

"Josephine!  how  can  you  be  so  stupid?" 
said  her  husband,  irritably.  "  I  hope  I  am  at 
least  as  wise  as  you,  and  this  seems  to  me  an 
excellent  scheme.  In  fact,"  he  added,  folding 
juis  hands  and  casting  up  his  eyes — those  effect- 
ive black  eyes  which  did  no  pulpit-duty  now — 
"I  think  that  to  let  it  go  would  be  to  fail  in 
my  gratitude  to  Providence,  and  lose  an  op- 
portunity of  distinguishing  myself  in  that  sphere 
of  life  to  which,  as  our  noble  catechism  says,  it 
has  pleased  God  to  call  me.  For  I  am  com- 
paratively a  young  man  still ;  much  under  fifty, 
you  know,  and  I  may  live  to  seventy,  as  my  fa- 
ther did.  And  your  father,  was  he  not  seven- 
ty-four or  seventy-five?  By-the-by" — and  he 
started  up,  struck  with  an  idea  so  sudden  and 
brilliant  that  he  could  not  keep  it  to  himself 
one  moment.  "Since  you  so  strongly  object 
to  our  taking  this  name  of  Oldham,  what  say 
you,  my  darling  wife,  to  our  taking  one  that 
actually  does  belong  to  us — at  least  to  you? 
Suppose  we  were  to  call  ourselves  by  your 
maiden  name,  De  Bougainville  ?" 

Josephine  turned  pale  as  death.  All  the 
blood  in' her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  rush  on  in  a  frantic  tide.     She 


tried  to  speak,  but  her  throat  contracted  with 
a  sort  of  spasm. 

"Wait.  It  is  so  sudden.  Let  me  think." 
And  she  sat  down,  a  little  apart,  with  her  hand 
over  her  eyes.  These  never  sought  her  hus- 
band's; they  never  did  now,  either  for  help, 
counsel,  or  sympathy ;  she  knew  it  would  be 
only  vain,  seeking  for  what  one  can  not  hope 
to  find.  All  she  did  was  to  sit  in  silence,  list- 
ening, as  to  the  noise  of  a  stream  of  water,  to 
the  flow  of  his  voluminous  talk.  It  harmed 
her  not ;  she  scarcely  heard  it. 

But  Mr.  Scanlan's  sudden  suggestion  had  as 
suddenly  and  powerfully  affected  her.  There 
was  in  Josephine  a  something — hitherto  con- 
scientiously and  sternly  suppressed — which  her 
husband  never  dreamed  of;  the  strong  '^' aristo- 
cratic" feeling.  Not  in  his  sense — the  cringing 
worship  of  a  mere  title — but  the  prejudice  in 
favor  of  whatever  is  highest  and  best,  in  birth, 
breeding,  and  manner  of  life.  Though  she 
never  spoke  of  it,  her  pride  in  these  things,  so 
far  as  she  herself  possessed  them,  was  extreme. 
The  last  of  the  De  Bougainvilles  cherished  her 
name  and  family  with  a  tenderness  all  the  fond- 
er because  it  was  like  love  for  the  dead ;  the 
glory  of  the  race  had  departed.  To  revive  it — 
to  transmit  to  her  children,  and  through  them 
to  distant  descendants,  not  merely  the  blood, 
but  the  name,  was  a  pleasure  so  keen  that  it 
thrilled  her  almost  like  pain. 

"Well,  Josephine?  Bless  me  —  how  j-ou 
start !  You  quite  frightened  me.  Well ;  and 
what  do  you  say,  my  dear  ?" 

"Don't  tempt  me!"  she  answered,  with  a 
half-hysterical  laugh.  "  As  Bridget  says,  '  Let 
sleeping  dogs  lie.'  If  once  I  begin  thinking  of 
such  a  thing — of  seeing  my  boy  Ce'sar  another 
Cesar  de  Bougainville — there  were  six  genera- 
tions of  them,  all  named  Ce'sar,  and  all  honest, 
honorable  men  ;  my  father  was  the  last.  Ah, 
mon  Dieu!  mon  pere — mon  pere!"  She  burst 
into  tears. 

Mr.  Scanlan  was  a  little  discomposed,  almost 
displeased ;  but,  not  being  a  sensitive  man,  or 
quick  to  divine  motives,  he  set  down  his  wife's 
extraordinary  emotion  to  the  excitement  of 
possibly  becoming  "my  lady,"  to  say  nothing 
of  "Lady  de  Bougainville,"  which  was  such  a 
charmingly  "genteel"  name.  He  patted  her 
on  the. back,  and  bade  her  "  take  things  easily, 
she  would  get  used  to  them  in  time ;"  and  then, 
as  he  especially  disliked  any  thing  like  a  scene, 
he  called  Adrienne  to  attend  to  ber  mother,  and 
took  himself  off  immediately. 

And  his  wife  ? 

She  had  no  one  to  speak  to,  no  one  to  take 
counsel  of.  Unless  her  little  daughter,  who, 
sitting  at  the  further  end  of  the  room — whither 
Adrienne  usually  crept  when  her  father  ap- 
peared— had  heard  all,  might  be  called  a  coun- 
selor. The  girl,  so  simple  in  some  things,  was 
in  others  much  wiser  than  her  years — eldest 
daughters  of  sorely-tried  women  often  are. 
Adrienne,  being  called,  said  a  few  wise  words 
which  influenced  her  mother  more  than  at  th« 


120 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


MOTHEB  AND   DATTGHTEK. 


time  either  were  aware.  And  she  told  a  few 
things  which  her  brothers  had  in  confidence 
told  to  her — how  Louis  and  Martin,  in  their 
grand  school  "for  noblemen  and  gentlemen," 
were  taunted  perpetually  about  the  "Scanlan 
and  Co."  porter-bottles;  and  even  Cesar,  fine 
young  fellow  as  he  was,  found  that,  until  he 
had  established  his  character  as  a  reading  man, 
so  that  nobody  asked  who  his  father  was,  all 
his  wealth  failed  to  be  a  sufficient  passport  into 
the  best  Oxford  society.  In  short,  the  family 
were  suffering  under  the  inevitable  difficulties 
of  nouveaux  riches,  which  of  course  they  would 
live  down  in  time — but  still  it  would  take  time. 
To  shorten  this — especially  for  the  boys,  who 
were  of  an  age  to  feel  such  difficulties  acutely 
— would  be  advisable  if  possible.  And  it  was 
possible  that  things  might  be  easier  for  the 
three  lads,  just  entering  the  world,  if  they 
entered  it  as  the  sons  of  Sir  Edward  and  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

Weak  reasoning,  perhaps!  It  would  have 
been  stronger  and  braver  to  hold  fast  to  the 
paternal  name,  ennobling  and  beautifying  it  by 
such  tender  fidelity.  And  so  doubtless  Avould 
have  been  done,  by  both  wife  and  children, 
liad  the  father  been  a  different  sort  of  father. 
But — as  I  have  oftentimes  repeated — life  is  not 
unlevel,  and  in  it  people  usually  get  what  they 
earn.  In  this  family,  as  in  most  others,  things 
were — as  they  were,  and  nothing  could  make 
them  otherwise. 

When  the  mother  and  daughter  went  down 
stairs  to  dinner  the  matter  was  quite  decided. 


"Papa,"  said  Adrienne,  mustering  up  a 
strange  courage,  for  she  saw  her  mother  was 
hardly  able  to  speak,  and  going  straight  up  to 
her  father  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with 
a  slightly  ill-used  and  dignified  air.  "Papa, 
mamma  has  told  me  every  thing,  and  I  am  so 
glad.  I  hope  all  will  come  about  as  you  wish. 
How  nice  it  will  be  to  hear  you  called  '  Sir  Ed- 
ward !'  And  just  look  at  mamma  in  that  new 
dress  of  hers ;  she  put  it  on  to-night  to  please 
you.  Will  she  not  make  a  beautiful  Lady  de 
Bougainville?" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

It  was  all  settled  at  last,  though  after  much 
delay,  ^nd  very  considerable  expense.  One 
fine  morning  the  Times  newspaper  announced, 
in  advertisement,  to  all  the  world  that  "the 
Reverend  Edward  Scanlan,  of  Oldham  Court, 
meant  thenceforward,  in  meihory  of  his  wife's 
father,  the  late  Vicorate  de  Bougainville"  (he 
inserted  this  paragraph  himself,  and  Josephine 
first  saw  it  in  print  when  remonstrance  was 
idle),  "to  assume,  instead  of  his  own,  the 
name  and  arms  of  De  Bougainville."'  These 
last  he  had  already  obtained  with  much  trouble 
and  cost,  and  affixed  them  upon  every  avail- 
able article  within  and  without  the  house,  from 
letter-paper  and  carriage-panels  down  to  din- 
ner-plates and  hall  chairs.  His  wife  did  not 
interfere :  these  were,  after  all,  only  outside 
things. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


121 


But  when  she  saw,  for  the  first  time,  her 
new-old  name  on  the  address  of  a  letter,  and 
had  to  sign  once  again,  after  this  long  interval 
of  years,  "Josephine  de  Bougainville,"  the 
same  sudden  constriction  of  heart  seized  her. 
It  seemed  as  if  her  youth  were  returned  again, 
but  in  a  strange,  ghostly  fashion,  and  with  one 
vital  ditFerence  between  the  old  days  and  the 
new ;  then  her  future  lay  all  in  herself,  all  in 
this  visible  world  ;  now,  did  she,  who  had  long 
ceased  to  think  of  herself  and  her  own  personal 
liappiness,  ever  look  forward  to  the  world  in- 
visible ? 

I  have  said  Josephine  was  not  exactly  a  re- 
ligious woman.  The  circumstances  of  her  mar- 
ried life  had  not  been  likely  to  make  her  such. 
But  we  can  not,  at  least  some  people  can  not, 
live  wholly  without  God  in  the  world.  Some- 
times, in  her  long  leisure  hours  among  these 
old  tombs,  or  still  oftener  in  the  lovely  country 
around  Oldham  Court,  where  she  wandered  at 
her  will,  feeling  thankful  that  her  lines  had 
fallen  in  pleasant  places,  the  longing  for  God, 
the  seeking  after  Him,  though  in  a  blind, 
heathen  sort  of  way,  came  into  her  heart  and 
made  it  calmer  and  less  desolate.  Pure  if  al- 
ways was,  and  the  love  of  her  children  kept  it 
warm.  But  still  it  needed  the  great  plow-share 
of  affliction — solemn,  sacred  affliction,  coming 
direct  from  God,  not  man — to  go  over  it,  so  as 
to  make  the  ground  fit  for  late  harvest,  all  the 
richer  and  lovelier  because  it  was  so  late.  As 
yet,  under  that  composed  manner  of  hers,  sed- 
ulously as  she  did  her  duties,  complaining  of 
nothing,  and  enjoying  every  thing  as  much  as 
she  could,  for  it  seemed  to  her  absolutely  a. 
duty  to  enjoy,  she  was  nevertheless  conscious 
of  the  perpetual  feeling  of  "a  stone  in  her 
heart."  Not  a  fire,  as  once  used  to  be,  an 
ever-smouldering  sense  of  hot  indignation,  ap- 
prehension, or  wrong,  but  a  stone — a  cold  dead 
weight  that  never  went  away. 

Dr.  Waters  had  given  her  two  permanent 
private  advices  respecting  her  husband :  to 
keep  him  from  all  agitation,  and  never  to  let 
him  be  alone  for  many  hours  at  a  time.  To 
carry  out  this  without  his  discovering  it,  or  the 
necessity  for  it,  was  the  principal  business  of 
her  life,  and  a  difficult  task  too,  requiring  all 
her  patience  and  all  her  ingenuity.  Mr.  Scan- 
Ian — I  beg  his  pardon,  Mr.  de  Bougainville — 
was  exceedingly  well  now;  and,  with  care, 
might  remain  so  for  many  years.  Still  the 
solemn  cloud  hung  over  him,  which  he  saw 
not,  and  never  must  be  allowed  to  see,  or  his 
weak  nature  would  have  succumbed  at  once. 
But  to  his  wife  it  was  visible  perpetually ;  lev- 
eling alike  all  her  pleasures  and  all  her  pains  ; 
teaching  her  unlimited  forbearance  with  him, 
and  yet  a  power  of  opposing  him,  when  his 
own  good  required  it,  which  was  almost  re- 
morseless in  its  strength.  As  the  wifely  love 
departed,  the  motherly  pity,  as  of  a  woman 
over  a  sick  or  foolish  child,  which  she  has  to 
guard  with  restrictions  that  almost  look  like 
cruelty,  and  yet  are  its  only  safety,  rose  up  in 

I 


that  poor,  seared  heart,  which  sometimes  she 
could  hardly  believe  was  the  heart  of  the  girl 
Josephine  de  Bougainville.  It  would  have 
broken  long  ago,  only  it  was  a  strong  heart, 
and  it  was  that  of  the  mother  of  six  children. 

She  was  sitting  one  day  in  the  oriel  window 
of  the  drawing-room,  writing  to  her  boys  at 
school,  when  her  husband  rushed  in  and  kissed 
her  in  one  of  his  bursts  of  demonstrative  af- 
fection. 

"Give  you  joy,  give  you  joy,  my  lady. 
You'll  be  my  lady  this  time  next  week.  I  have 
just  heard  from  Lord  Turberville.  The  ad- 
dress is  quite  settled  at  last,  and  the  deputa- 
tion, with  myself  at  its  head,  starts  to-morrow 
for  London." 

"  To-morrow !  That  is  soon,  but  I  dare  say. 
I  can  manage  to  get  ready,"  said  Mrs.  de 
Bougainville,  with  a  smile. 

"You!"  her  husband  replied,  and  his  coun- 
tenance fell  at  once ;  "  my  dear  Josephine, 
there  is  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  your  go- 
ing." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  go.  I  want  to  be  with 
you;  it  is  surely  not  an  unnatural  wish;"  and 
then  she  stopped,  with  a  horrid  consciousness 
of  hypocrisy.  For  she  knew  in  her  heart  she 
would  much  rather  have  been  left  at  home  with 
her  children.  But  with  Dr.  Waters's  warning 
ringing  in  her  ears,  there  was  no  alternative. 
She  must  go  with  her  husband  ;  and  once  more 
she  said  this. 

Mr.  de  Bougainville  looked  extremely  dis- 
concerted, but  the  wholesome  awe  he  had  of 
his  wife,  and  his  real  affection  for  her,  though 
it  was  little  deeper  than  that  of  the  tame  ani- 
mal which  licks  the  hand  that  feeds  it  and 
makes  it  physically  comfortable,  kept  his  arro- 
gance within  bounds. 

"  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Josephine,  nothing  is 
more  natural  than  for  yoii  to  wish  to  be  with 
me,  and  I  should  be  very  glad  of  your  company. 
But  you  dislike  London  life  so  much,  and  I 
shall  have  a  great  deal  to  do  and  much  high 
society  to  mix  in,  and  you  do  riot  like  high  so- 
ciety.    Really  you  had  better  stay  at  home." 

"  I  can  not  stay  at  home,"  she  said,  and  put- 
ting aside  all  wounded  feeling  she  looked  up  in 
his  face,  which  happened  to  be  particularly 
sickly  that  day,  and  saw  only  the  creature  she 
had  charge  of,  whose  whole  well-being,  moral 
and  physical,  depended  upon  her  care.  It  was 
a  total  and  melancholy  reversal  of  the  natural 
order  of  things  between  husband  and  wife  ;  but 
Providence  had  made  it  so,  and  how  could  she 
gairisay  it  ?     She  had  only  to  bear  it. 

*' Edward,"  she  entreated — it  was  actual  en- 
treaty, so  sharp  was  her  necessity — "  take  me 
with  you.  I  will  be  no  burden  to  you,  and  I 
do  so  want  to  go." 

He  made  no  resistance,  it  was  too  much 
trouble  ;  but  saying,  with  a  vexed  air,  "  Well, 
do  as  you  like,  you  always  do,"  quitted  the 
room  at  once. 

Doing  as  she  liked !  I  wonder  how  many 
years  it  was  since  Josephine  enjoyed  that  en- 


122 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


viaMe  privilege  or  luxury,  if  indeed  to  any  hu- 
man being  it  long  continues  to  be  either.  As 
her  husband  slammed  the  door,  she  sighed — 
one  long,  pent-up,  forlorn,  passionate  sigh  :  then 
rose,  and  set  about  her  preparations  for  depart- 
ure. 

She  left  her  eldest  daughter  a  delighted  queen- 
regent  at  Oldham  Court,  with  Bridget  as  prime 
minister,  promising  to  be  home  again  as  soon 
us  she  could.  "And  remember  you'll  come 
back  'my  lady,'"  whispered  Bridget,  who  of 
course  knew  every  thing.  She  had  a  dim  im- 
pression that  this  and  all  other  worldly  advant- 
ages had  accrued  solely  through  the  merits  of 
her  beloved  mistress :  and  was  proud  of  them 
accordingly. 

Her  mistress  made  no  answer.  Possibly  she 
thought  that  to  be  the  wife  of  some  honest,  poor 
man,  who  eai'ned  his  bread  by  the  labor  of  his 
brains  or  the  sweat  of  his  brow — earned  it  hard- 
ly, but  cheerfully;  denied  himself,  but  took 
tender,  protecting  care  of  his  wife  and  children ; 
told  the  truth,  paid  his  debts,  and  kept  his  hon- 
or unblemished  in  the  face  of  God  and  man — 
was  at  least  as  happy  a  lot  as  that  of  Lady  de 
Bougainville. 

The  husband  and  wife  started  on  their  jour- 
ney :  actually  their  first  journey  together  since 
their  honey-moon!  Traveling  en  prince,  with 
valet  and  maid  and  a  goodly  array  of  luggage, 
which  greatly  delighted  Mr.  de  Bougainville. 
Especially  when  they  had  to  pass  through  Ditch- 
ley,  where  he  had  never  been  since  they  left  the 
place,  nor  had  she.  She  wanted  to  stop  at 
Priscilla  Nunn's,  but  found  the  shop  closed,  the 
good  woman  having  given  up  business  and  gone 
abroad. 

"  A  good  thing  too,  and  then  people  will  for- 
get her ;  and  forget  that  you  ever  demeaned 
yourself  by  being  a  common  seamstress.  I 
wonder,  Josephine,  you  were  ever  so  silly  as  to 
do  such  a  thing." 

"Do  you?"  said  she,  remembering  some- 
thing else  which  he  little  suspected  she  had 
been  on  the  very  brink  of  doing,  which  she  was 
now  thankful  she  had  not  done ;  that  almost  by 
miracle  Providence  had  stood  in  her  way  and 
hindered  her.  Now,  sweeping  along  in  her 
carriage  and  pair,  she  recalled  that  forlorn,  des- 
perate woman  who  had  hurried  through  the 
dark  streets  one  rainy  night  to  Priscilla  Nunn's 
shop-door,  bent  on  a  purpose  which  she  could 
not  even  now  conscientiously  say  was  a  sinful 
purpose,  though  Heaven  had  saved  her  from 
completing  it.  As  she  looked  down  on  the 
face  by  her  side,  which  no  prosperity  could'ever 
change  into  either  a  healthy  or  a  happy  face, 
Josephine  said  to  herself  for  the  twentieth  time, 
"Yes;  I  am  glad  I  did  not  forsake  him.  I 
never  will  forsake  him — my  poor  husband!" 

Not  my  dear,  my  honored — only  my  "poor" 
husband.  But  to  such  a  woman  this  was 
enough. 

Their  journey  might  have  been  bright  as  the 
May  morning  itself,  but  there  was  always  some 
crumpled  rose-leaf  in  the  daily  couch  of  Mr. 


de  Bougainville.  This  time  it  was  the  non- 
appearance of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Turber- 
ville,  with  whom  he  said  he  had  arranged  to 
travel.  True,  he  had  never  seen  either  of  them, 
nor  had  his  wife  ;  the  inhabitants  of  Turberville 
Hall  and  Oldham  Court  having  merely  ex- 
changed calls,  both  missing  one  another,  and 
there  the  acquaintance  ended.  Apparently, 
Mr.  de  Bougainville  asserted,  his  lordship's  del- 
icacy prevented  his  coming  too  prominently  for- 
ward in  this  affair  at  present,  but  when  once 
the  knighthood  was  bestowed  it  would  be  all 
right.  And  he  was  sure,  from  something  Lord 
Cosmo  said,  that  the  Earl  wished  tb  travel  with 
him  to  London,  starting  from  this  station. 

So  he  went  about  seeking  him,  or  somebody 
like  what  he  supposed  an  earl  to  be,  but  in  vain  ; 
and  at  last  had  to  drop  suddenly  into  a  carriage 
where  were  only  a  little  old  lady  and  gentle- 
man, to  whom,  at  first  sight,  he  took  a  strong 
antipathy,  as  he  often  did  to  plain  or  shabbily- 
dressed  persons.  This  couple  having  none  of 
the  shows  of  wealth  about  them,  must,,  he 
thought,  be  quite  common  people ;  and  he  treat- 
ed them  accordingly. 

It  is  a  bad  thing  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight 
with  your  fellow-passengers  —  in  railway  car- 
riages or  elsewhere ;  but  to  hate  them  at  first 
sight  is  sometimes  equally  dangerous.  Jo- 
sephine tried  vainly  to  soften  matters,  for  she 
had  always  a  tender  side  to  elderly  people,  and 
this  couple  seemed  very  inoffensive,  nay,- rath- 
er pleasant  people,  the  old  lady  having  a  shrewd, 
kind  face,  and  the  old  gentleman  very  courte- 
ous manners.  But  Mr.  de  Bougainville  was 
barely  civil  to  them  :  and  even  made  sotto  voce 
remarks  concerning  them  for  a  great  part  of 
the  journey.  Till,  reaching  the  London  ter- 
minus, he  was  utterly  confounded  by  seeing  the 
guard  of  the  train — a  Ditchley  man — rush  u]) 
to  the  carriage  door  with  an  officious  "Let  me 
help  you,  my  lord,"  and  a  few  minutes  after, 
picking  up  a  book  the  old  lady  had  left  behiiui 
her,  he  read  on  it  the  name  of  the  Countess  of 
Turberville. 

Poor  Mr.  de  Bougainville!  Like  one  of 
those  short-sighted  mortals  who  walk  with  an- 
gels unawares,  he  had  been  traveling  for  the 
last  three  hours  with  the  very  persons  whose 
acquaintance  he  most  wished  to  cultivate,  and 
had  behaved  himself  in  such  a  manner  as,  it 
was  plain  to  be  seen,  would  not  induce  them  to 
reciprocate  this  feeling.  No  wonder  the  catas- 
trophe quite  upset  him. 

"  If  I  had  had  the  least  idea  who  they  were  ! 
— and  it  was  very  stupid  of  you,  Josephine,  not 
to  find  out ;  you  were  talking  to  her  ladyship 
for  ever  so  long.  If  I  had  only  known  it  was 
his  lordship,  I  would  have  introduced  myself  at 
once.  At  any  rate,  I  should  have  treated  him 
quite  differently.     How  very  unfortunate ! " 

"Very,"  said  Mrs.  de  Bougainville,  dryly. 

She  said  no  more,  for  she  was  much  tired, 
and  the  noise  of  the  London  streets  confused 
her.  They  had  taken  a  suit  of  apartments  in 
one  of  the  most  public  and  fashionable  "fami- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


123 


ly"  hotels — it  had  a  homeless,  dreary  splendor, 
:ind  she  disliked  it  much.  But  her  husband 
considered  no  other  abode  suitable  for  Sir  Ed- 
ward and  Lady  de  Bougainville ;  which  person- 
ages, in  a  few  days,  they  became,  and  received 
the  congratulations,  not  too  disinterested,  of  all 
the  hotel  servants,  and  even  of  the  master  him- 
self, who  had  learned  the  circumstance,  togeth- 
er with  almost  fabulous  reports  of  the  wealth  of 
Sir  Edward  in  his  own  county. 

Nevertheless,  even  the  most  important  pro- 
vincial magnate  is  a  very  small  person  in  Lon- 
don. Beyond  the  deputation  which  accompa- 
nied him,  Sir  Edward  had  no  visitors  at  all. 
He  knew  nobody,  and  nobody  knew  him  ;  that 
is,  nobody  of  any  consequence.  One  or  two 
of  the  Summerhayes  set  hunted  him  out,  but 
he  turned  a  cold  shoulder  to  them ;  they  were 
not  reputable  acquaintances  now.  And  as  for 
his  other  circle  of  ancient  allies,  though  it  was 
the  season  of  the  May  meetings,  and  he  might 
easily  have  found  them  out,  he  was  so  terribly 
afraid  of  reviving  any  memories  of  the  poor 
Irish  curate,  and  of  identifying  himself  again 
with  the  party  to  which  he  had  formerly  be- 
longed, that  he  got  out  of  their  way  as  much 
as  possible.  Hoiiores  mutant  mores,  it  is  said ; 
they  certainly  change  opinions.  That  very  pe- 
culiarity of  the  Low  Church — at  least  of  its  best 
and  sincerest  members — which  makes  them  take 
up  and  associate  with  any  one,  rich  or  poor, 
patrician  or  plebeian,  who  shares  their  opinions 
— this  noble  characteristic,  which  has  resulted 
in  so  much  practical  good,  and  earned  for  them 
worthily  their  name  of  Evangelicals,  was,  in  his 
changed  circumstances,  the  very  last  thing  pal- 
atable to  the  Reverend  Sir  Edward  de  Bougain- 
ville. 

So  he  ignored  them  all,  and  the  "  Reverend" 
too,  as  mu?!h  as  he  could  ;  and  turned  his  whole 
aspirations  to  politics  and  the  Earl  of  Turber- 
ville — to  whom,  haunting  as  he  did  the  lobby 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  he  was  at  last  in- 
troduced, and  from  whom  he  obtained  various 
slight  condescensions,  of  which  he  boasted 
much. 

But  tlie  Countess  never  called ;  and  day  by 
day  the  hope  of  the  De  Bougainvilles  being  in- 
troduced into  high  society  through  her  means 
melted  into  thin  air.  Long,  weary  mornings 
in  the  hotel  drawing-rooi^,  thrown  entirely 
upon  each  other,  as  they  had  not  been  for 
years ;  dull  afternoon  drives  side  by  side  round 
Hyde  Park ;  dinner  spun  out  to  the  utmost  limit 
of  possible  time,  and  then  perhaps  a  theatre  or 
opera — for  Sir  Edward  had  no  objection  to  such 
mundane  dissipations  now — these  made  up  the 
round  of  the  days.  But  still  he  refused  to  leave 
London,  or  "bury  himself,"  as  he  expressed  it, 
at  Oldham  Court,  and  thought  it  very  hard  that 
his  wife  should  expect  it.  One  of  the  painful 
things  to  her  in  this  London  visit  was  the  in- 
diflference  her  husband  showed  to  her  society, 
and  his  eagerness  to  escape  from  it ;  which  fact 
is  not  difficult  to  understand.  I,  who  knew  her 
only  in  her  old  age,  can  guess  well  enough  how 


the  small  soul  must  have  been  encumbered, 
shamed,  and  oppressed  even  to  irritation  by  the 
greater  one.  Many  a  woman  has  been  blamed 
for  being  "  too  good"  for  a  bad  husband — too 
pure,  too  sternly  righteous ;  but  I  for  one  am 
inclined  to  tliink  these  allegations  come  from 
the  meaner  half  of  the  world.  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville had  a  very  high  standard  of  moral 
right,  an  intense  pity  for  those  who  fell  from  it, 
but  an  utter  contempt  for  those  who  pretended 
to  it  without  practicing  it.  And  to  such  she 
was  probably  as  obnoxious  as  Abdiel  to  Luci- 
fer. And  so  she  became  shortly  to  a  set  of  peo- 
ple who,  failing  better  society,  gathered  round 
her  husband,  cultivating  him  in  coffee-rooms 
and  theatres :  new  friends,  new  flatterers,  and 
those  "old  acquaintance"  who  always  revive, 
like  frozen  snakes,  in  the  summer  of  prosperity, 
and  begin  winding  about  the  unfortunate  man 
of  property  with  that  oily  affection  which  cynics 
have  well  termed  "  the  gratitude  for  favors 
about  to  be  received."  These  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville saw  through  at  once ;  they  felt  that 
she  did,  and  hated  her  accordingly.  But  have 
we  not  sacred  warrant  for  the  consolation  that 
it  is  sometimes  rather  a  good  thing  to  be  hated 
— by  some  people  ? 

Longing,  nay,  thirsting  for  home,  Josephine 
implored  her  husband  to  take  her  back  thither; 
and  he  consented,  not  for  this  reason,  but  be- 
cause their  weekly  expenses  were  so  large  as  to 
frighten  him ;  for  it  was  a  curious  thing,  and 
yet  not  contrary  to  human  nature,  that  as  he 
grew  rich  he  grew  miserly.  The  money  which, 
when  he  had  it  not,  he  would  have  spent  like 
water,  now,  when  he  had  it,  he  often  grudged, 
especially  in  small  expenditures  and  in  outlays 
for  the  sake  of  other  people.  His  "stingy" 
wife  was,  strange  to  say,  now  becoming  much 
more  extravagant  than  he. 

"Yes,  we'll  go  home,  or  I  shall  be  ruined. 
People  are  all  rogues  and  thieves,  and  the  rich- 
er they  believe  a  man  to  be  the  more  they  plun- 
der him."  And  he  would  have  departed  tlie 
very  next  day  but  for  an  unexpected  hindrance. 

Lady  Turberville  actually  called !  that  is, 
they  found  her  card  lying  on  the  tableland  with 
it  an  invitation  to  a  large  assembly  which  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  giving  once  in  the  season ; 
thereby  paying  off  her  own  social  and  her  hus- 
band's political  debts.  It  was  a  fortnight  dis- 
tant, and  Josephine  would  fain  have  declined, 
but  her  husband  looked  horrified. 

"Refuse!  Refuse  the  Countess!  What  can 
you  be  thinking  of?  Why,  hers  is  just  the  set 
in  which  we  ought  to  move,  where  I  am  sure 
to  be  properly  appreciated.  You  too,  my  dear, 
when  people  find  out  that  you  come  of  good 
family — if  you  would  only  get  over  your  coun- 
try ways,  and  learn  to  shine  in  society." 

Josephine  smiled,  and  there  came  again  to 
her  lips  the  bitter  warning,  which  she  knew  was 
safe  not  to  be  comprehended,  "Let  sleeping 
dogs  lie!"  For  lately,  thrust  against  her  will 
into  this  busy,  brilliant,  strong,  intellectual  life 
— such  as  every  body  must  see  more  or  less  in 


124 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


London — there  liad  arisen  in  her  a  dim,  dor- 
mant sense  of  what  she  was — a  woman  with 
eyes  to  see,  brains  to  judge,  and  a  heart  to  com- 
jn-ehend  it.  Also,  what  she  might  have  been, 
and  how  much  she  might  have  done,  both  of 
lierself  and  by  means  of  her  large  fortune,  if 
she  had  been  unmarried,  or  married  to  a  differ- 
ent sort  of  man.  She  felt  dawning  sometimes 
.1  wild,  womanly  ambition,  or  rather  the  fore- 
shadowing of  what,  under  other  circumstances, 
that  ambition  might  have  been — as  passionate, 
as  tender,  as  that  which  she  thought  she  per- 
ceived one  night  in  the  eyes  of  a  great  states- 
man's wife  listening  to  her  husband  speaking  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  Even  as  she,  Jose- 
phine de  Bougainville,  could  have  listened,  she 
knew,  had  Heaven  sent  her  such  a  man. 

But  these  were  wild,  wicked  thoughts.  She 
pressed  them  down,  and  turned  her  attention 
to  other  things,  especially  to  the  new  fashion- 
able costume  in  which  her  husband  insisted  she 
was  to  commence  "  shining  in  society." 

When,  on  the  momentous  night,  Sir  Edward 
handed  his  wife,  rather  ostentatiously,  through 
the  knot  of  idlers  in  the  hotel  lobby,  he  declared 
with  truth  that  she  looked  "  beautiful. "  So  she 
did,  with  the  beauty  which  is  independent  of 
mere  youth.  She  had  made  the  best  of  her 
beauty,  too,  as,  when  nigh  upon  forty,  every 
woman  is  bound  to  take  extra  pains  in  doing. 
In  defiance  of  the  court  milliner,  she  had  in- 
sisted upon  veiling  her  faded  neck  and  arms 
•with  rich  lace,  and  giving  stateliness  to  her  tall 
thin  figure  by  sweeping  folds  of  black  velvet. 
Also,  instead  of  foolish  artificial  flowers  in  her 
gray  hair,  she  wore  a  sort  of  head-dress,  simple 
yet  regal,  which  made  her  look,  as  her  maid 
declared,  '*  like  a  picture."  She  did  not  try  to 
be  young ;  but  she  could  not  help  being  beau- 
tiful. 

Enchanted  with  her  appearance,  her  husband 
called  her  exuberantly  "his  jewel;"  which  no 
doubt  she  was ;  only  he  had  no  wish,  like  the 
tender  Scotch  lover,  to  "  wear  her  in  his  bosom" 
— he  would  much  have  preferred  to  plant  her 
in  his  cap-front,  in  a  gorgeous  setting,  for  all 
the  worM  to  gaze  at.  Her  value  to  him  was 
not  in  herself,  but  what  she  appeared  to  other 
people. 

Therefore,  when  he  saw  her  contrasted  with 
the  brilliant  crowd  which  straggled  up  the  stair- 
case of  Turberville  House,  his  enthusiastic  ad- 
miration of  her  a  little  cooled  down. 

"  How  dark  you  look  in  that  black  gown ! 
There's  something  not  right  about  you,  not  like 
these  other  ladies.  I  see  what  it  is  ;  you  dress 
yourself  in  far  too  old-fashioned  and  too  plain 
a  way.  Very  provoking !  when  I  wanted  you 
to  appear  your  best  before  her  ladyship." 

"She  will  never  see  me  in  this  crowd,"  was 
all  Josephine  answered,  or  had  time  to  answer, 
being  drifted  apart  from  her  husband,  who  dart- 
ed after  a  face  he  thought  he  knew. 

In  the  pause,  while,  half  amused,  half  be- 
wildered, she  looked  on  at  this  her  first  speci- 
men of  whafSir  Edward  called  "  society,"  Lady 


de  Bougainville  heard  accidentally  a  few  com- 
ments on  Sir  Edward  from  two  young  men,  who 
apparently  recognized  him,  but,  naturally,  not 
her. 

"  That  man  is  a  fool — a  perfect  fool.  And 
such  a  conceited  fool  too! — you  should  hear 
him  in  the  lobby  of  the  House,  chattering  about 
his  friend  the  Earl,  to  whom  he  thinks  him- 
self of  such  importance.  Who  is  he — do  you 
know  ?" 

"Oh,  a  country  squire,  just  knighted.  Not 
a  bad  fellow.  Lord  Cosmo  says,  very  rich,  and 
with  such  a  charming  wife!  Might  do  well 
enough  among  his  familiar  turnips — but  here  ? 
Why  will  he  make  himself  such  an  ass !" 

To  be  half  conscious  of  a  truth  one's  self,  and 
to  hear  it  broadly  stated  by  other  people,  are 
two  very  different  things.  Josephine  shrank 
back,  feeling  for  the  moment  as  if  whipped  with 
nettles ;  till  she  remembered  they  were  only 
nettles,  not  swords.  No  moral  delinquency  had 
been  cast  up  against  her  husband  ;  and  for  the 
rest,  what  did  it  matter? — she  knew  it  all  be- 
fore :  and,  in  spite  of  her  fine  French  sense  of 
comme  il  faut,  and  her  pure  high  breeding,  she 
had  learned  to  put  up  with  it.  She  could  do  so 
still. 

Pushing  with  difficulty  through  the  throng, 
she  rejoined  Sir  Edward.  "  Keep  close  to  me," 
she  said.      "Don't  leave  me  again,  pray." 

"Very  well,  my  dear ;  but —  Ah !  there  are 
two  friends  of  mine!"  And  in  his  impulsive 
way  he  introduced  to  her  at  once  the  very  young 
men  who  had  been  speaking  of  him. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  bowed,  looking  them 
both  right  in  the  face  with  those  stern  unflinch- 
ing eyes  of  hers ;  and,  young  men  of  fashion  as 
they  were,  they  both  blushed  scarlet.  Then, 
putting  her  arm  through  her  husband's,  she 
walked  deliberately  on,  carrying  her  head  very 
erect,  to  the  select  circle  where,  glittering  un- 
der a  blaze  of  ancestral  diamonds,  and  scarcely 
recognizable  as  the  old  lady  who  had  traveled 
in  such  quiet,  almost  shabby  simplicity,  stood 
the  little,  brown,  withered,  but  still  courtly  and 
dignified  Countess  of  Turberville. 

"Stop,"  whispered  Sir  Edward,  in  unwonted 
timidity.  "It  is  so  very — very  awkward.  I 
do  hope  her  ladyship  has  forgotten.  Must  I 
apologize  ?  What  in  the  world  am  I  to  say  to 
her?     Josephine,  do  stop  one  minute." 

Josephine  obeyed. 

And  here  let  me  too  pause,  lest  I  might  be 
misconstrued  in  the  picture  which  I  draw — I 
own  in  not  too  flattering  colors — of  Sir  Edward 
de  Bougainville. 

It  was  not  his  low  origin,  not  the  shadow 
of  the  Scanlan  porter-bottles,  which  made  him 
what  he  was.  I  have  known  gentlemen  whose 
fathers  were  plowmen — nay,  the  truest  gen- 
tleman I  ever  knew  was  the  son  of  a  working 
mechanic.  And  I  have  seen  boors  who  had 
titles,  and  who,  in  spite  of  the  noble  lineage  of 
centuries,  were  boors  still.  What  made  this 
man  vulgar  was  the  innate  coarseness  of  his 
nature,  lacquered  over  with  superficial  refine- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


125 


merit.  He  was,  in  fact,  that  which,  in  all  ranks 
of  life,  is  the  very  opposite  of  a  gentleman — a 
sham.  I  do  not  love  him,  but  I  will  not  be 
unfair  to  him ;  and  if  I  hold  him  up  to  con- 
tempt, I  wish  it  clearly  to  be  understood  what 
are  the  things  I  despise  him  for. 

Did  his  wife  despise  him  ?  How  can  one 
tell?  We  often  meet  men  and  their  wives, 
concerning  whom  we  ask  of  ourselves  the  same 
question,  and  wonder  how  they  ever  came  to  be 
united;  yet  the  wives  move  in  society  with 
smiling  countenances,  and  perform  unshrink- 
ingly their  various  duties,  as  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville performed  hers. 

"Shall  we  go  on  now?"  she  said,  and  led 
her  husband  forward  to  the  dreadful  ordeal. 
But  it  passed  over  quite  harmlessly — rather 
worse  than  harmlessly ;  for  the  Countess  mere- 
ly bowed,  smiling  upon  them  as  upon  all  her 
other  guests,  and  apparently  scarcely  recogniz- 
ing them,  in  that  dense,  ever-moving  throng. 
They  went  on  with  it,  and  never  saw  their 
hostess  again  all  the  evening.  The  sole  re- 
ward they  gained  for  three  hours  of  pushing 
and  scrambling,  heated  rooms  and  an  infinites- 
imal quantity  of  refreshment,  was  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  their  names  in  the  paper  next  day 
among  the  Countess  of  Turberville's  four  hun- 
dred invited  guests. 

This  was  Lady  de  Bougainville's  first  and 
last  experience  of  "shining  in  society" — that 
is,  London  society,  which  alone  Sir  Edward 
thought  worth  every  thing.  He  paid  for  it 
with  several  days  of  illness,  brought  on  by  the 
heat  and  excitement,  and  perhaps  the  disap- 
pointment too,  though  to  the  latter  he  never 
owned.  After  that  he  was  glad  enough  to  go 
home. 

Oh,  how  Josephine's  heart  leaped  when  she 
saw,  nestling  among  the  green  hills,  the  gray 
outline  of  Oldham  Court !  She  had,  more  than 
any  one  I  ever  knew,  the  quality  of  adhesive- 
ness, not  only  to  persons  but  places.  She  had 
loved  Wren's  Nest,  though  her  husband's  in- 
cessant schemes  for  quitting  it,  and  her  own 
constant  terror  for  the  future,  made  her  never 
feel  settled  there ;  but  Oldham  Court,  besides 
being  her  ideal  of  a  house  to  live  in,  was  her 
own  house,  her  home,  from  which  fate  now 
seemed  powerless  to  uproot  her.  She  clung  to 
it,  as,  had.  she  been  one  of  those  happy  wives 
who  carry  their  home  about  \ytlh  them,  she 
never  might  have  clung;  but  things  being  as 
they  were,  it  was  well  she  did  do  so — well  that 
she  could  accept  what  she  had,  and  rejoice  in 
it,  without  craving  for  the  impossible. 

After  their  return  she  had  a  wonderfully 
quiet  and  happy  summer.  Her  children  came 
about  her,  from  school  and  college,  enjoying 
their  holidays  the  more  for  the  hard  work  be- 
tween. And  her  husband  found  something  to 
do,  something  to  amuse  himself  with ;  he  was 
appointed  a  magistrate  for  the  county,  and  de- 
voted himself,  with  Wl  his  Irish  eagerness  after 
novelty,  to  the  administi-ation  of  justice  upon 
all  offenders.     Being  not  only  a  magistrate  but 


a  clergyman,  he  considered  himself  bound  to 
lay  on  the  moral  whip  as  heavily  as  possible, 
until  his  wife,  who  had  long  lost  with  him  the 
title  of  "Themis,"  sometimes  found  it  necessa- 
ry to  go  after  him,  not  as  Justice,  but  as  Mercy, 
binding  up  the  wounds  he  made. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "in  my  position,  and 
with  the  morality  of  the  whole  district  in  my 
keeping,  I  must  be  severe.  I  must  pass  over 
nothing,  or  people  will  think  I  am  lax  myself.'* 

And  many  was  the  poor  fellow  he  committed 
to  the  county  jail  for  having  unfortunately  a 
fish  in  his  hat  or  a  young  leveret  in  his  pocket; 
many  was  the  case  of  petty  larceny  that  he  dealt 
with  according  to  the  utmost  rigor  of  fhe  Taw. 
It  was  his  chief  amusement,  this  rigid  exercise 
of  authority,  and  he  really  enjoyed  it  exceed- 
ingly. 

Happily,  it  served  to  take  off  his  attention 
from  his  three  sons,  who  were  coming  to  that 
age  when  to  press  the  yoke  of  paternal  rule  too 
tightly  upon  young  growing  shoulders  is  some- 
times rather  dangerous.  All  the  boys,  Cesar 
especially,  instinctively  gave  their  father  as  wide 
a  berth  as  possible.  Not  that  he  ignored  them 
as  he  once  used  to  do ;  on  the  contrary,  to  stran- 
gers he  was  rather  fond  of  talking  about  "my 
eldest  son  at  Oxford,"  and  "my  two  boys  who 
are  just  going  to  Rugby."  But  inside  the  house 
he  interfered  little  with  them,  and  had  no  more 
of  their  company  than  was  inevitable. 

With  their  mother  it  was  quite  different. 
Now,  as  heretofore,  she  was  all  in  all  to  them, 
and  they  to  her.  Walking,  riding,  or  driving 
together,  they  had  her  quite  to  themselves :  en- 
joying with  her  the  new-found  luxuries  of  their 
life. 

"Mamma,  how  beautiful  you  look  in  that 
nice  gown ! — the  very  picture  of  a  Lady  de 
Bougainville!"  they  would  say,  in  their  fond 
boyish  admiration.  And  she,  when  she  watched 
them  ride  out  on  their  pretty  ponies,  and  was 
able  to  give  them  dogs  and  guns,  and  every 
thing  that  boys  delight  in,  exulted  in  the  for- 
tunate wealth,  and  blessed  Mr.  Oldham  in  her 
heart. 

In  truth,  under  this  strong  maternal  influence, 
and  almost  wholly  maternal  guidance,  her  sons 
were  growing  up  every  thing  that  she  desired  to 
see  them.  Making  all  allowance  for  the  ten- 
der exaggerations  of  memory — I  believe,  even 
from  Bridget's  account,  that  the  young  De  Bou- 
gainvilles  must  have  been  very  good  boys — hon- 
est, candid,  generous,  affectionate ;  the  comfort 
and  pride  of  their  happy  mother  during  this  first 
year  of  prosperity. 

Even  after  she  had  dispatched  them,  each  by 
turn,  to  school  and, college,  she  was  not  sad. 
She  had  only  sent  them  away  to  do  their  fitting 
work  in  the  world,  and  she  knew  they  would  do 
it  well.  She  trusted  them,  young  as  they  were, 
and  oh  !  the  blessing  of  trust ! — almost  greater 
than  that  of  love.  And  she  had  plenty  of  love, 
too,  daily  surrounding  her,  both  from  the  boys 
away  and  the  three  girls  at  home.  With  one  or 
other  of  her  six  children  her  time  and  thoughts 


126 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


LADY   DE  UODGAINYILLB   AND   TUE   COUNTESS. 


were  incessantly  occupied.  Mothers,  real  mo- 
thers, be  they  rich  or  poor,  have  seldom  leisure 
either  to  grow  morbid  or  to  grieve. 

Of  all  the  many  portraits  extant  of  her,  per- 
haps the  one  I  like  the  best  is  a  daguerreotype 
by  Claudet,  taken  during  this  bright  year.  It 
is  not  a  flattered  likeness,  of  course — the  gray 
hairs  and  wrinkles  are  plain  to  be  seen — but  it 
has  a  sweetness,  a  composed,  placid  content, 
greater  than  any  other  of  the  various  portraits 
of  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

It  came  home  from  London,  she  once  told 
me,  on  a  very  momentous  day,  so  much  so  that 
it  was  put  aside,  locked  up,  and  never  looked 
at  for  months  and  years. 

Some  hours  before,  she  had  parted  from  her 
eldest  boy,  who  was  returning  to  Oxford,  sorry 
to  leave  his  mother  and  his"  home,  but  yet  glad 
to  be  at  work  again.  She  had  seen  him  off, 
driving  his  father,  who  had  to  take  his  place 
for  the  first  time  on  the  bench  of  magistrates, 
to  the  county  town,  and  now  she  sat  thinking 
of  her  son — how  exactly  he  looked  the  charac- 
ter of  "the  young  heir,"  and  how  excessively 
like  he  was  to  her  own  father — outwardly  and 
inwardly  every  inch  a  De  Bougainville.     He 


seemed  to  grow  up  day  by  day  in  her  sight,  as 
Wordsworth's  Young  Romilly  in  that  of  his  mo- 
ther, "a  delightful  tree" — 

"And  proudly  did  his  branches  wave." 

She  felt  that  under  their  shadow  she  might  yet 
rejoice,  and  have  in  her  declining  age  many 
blessed  days.  Days  as  calm  and  lovely  as  this 
October  afternoon ;  when  the  hills  lay  quiet, 
transfigured  in  golden  light,  and  the  old  gray 
house  itself  shone  with  a  beauty  as  sweet  and 
yet  solemn  as  that  of  an  old  woman's  face  ;  the 
face  that  sometimes,  when  she  looked  in  the 
glass,  she  tried  to  fancy,  wondering  how  her 
sons  would  look  at  it  some  of  these  days.  Only 
her  sons.  •  For  the  world  outside,  and  its  com- 
ments upon  her,  Josephine,  from  first  to  last, 
never  cared  two  straws. 

Yet  she  was  not  unsocial,  and  sometimes, 
both  for  herself  and  her  children's  sake,  would 
have  preferred  a  less  lonely  life  than  they  had 
at  Oldham  Court — would  have  liked  occasion- 
ally to  mix  with  persons  of  her  own  sphere  and 
on  the  level  of  her  own  cultivation.  Now  her 
only  friends  were  the  poor  people  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, among  whom  she  went  about  a  good 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


127 


deal,  and  who  looked  up  to  her  as  to  the  Lady 
Bountiful  of  the  whole  country-side. 

But  that  day  she  had  enjoyed  some  pleasure 
in  a  long  talk  with  the  last  person  she  expected 
to  see  or  to  fraternize  with — Lady  Turberville. 
They  had  met  at  the  cottage  of  an  old  woman, 
to  whom  Josephine  had  been  very  kind.  The 
Countess  also ;  only,  as  she  herself  owned,  her 
charities  were  necessarily  limited.  "You  are 
a  much  richer  woman  than  I,"  she  had  said, 
with  a  proud  frankness,  as  she  stood  tucking 
up  her  gown-skirt  to  walk  back  the  three  miles 
to  the  Hall,  and  eyed  with  good-natured,  but 
half- satirical  glance.  Lady  de  Bougainville's 
splendid  carriage,  which  had  just  drawn  up  to 
the  cottage-door. 

Josephine  explained  that  she  had  intended 
to  take  the  paralytic  old  woman  a  drive. 

"  But,  since  it  rains  so  fast,  if  Lady  Turber- 
ville would — " 

"  If  she  would  give  you  the  chance  of  being 
kind  to  one  old  woman  instead  of  another? 
Well,  as  I  am  rheumatic,  and  neighborly  kind- 
ness is  pleasant,  will  you  drive  me  home  ?" 

"  Gladly,"  said  Lady  de  Bougainville.  And 
they  became  quite  friendly  before  they  reached 
the  Halh 

Altogether  the  strong  shrewd  simplicity  of 
the  old  Countess  —  she  was  about  sixty-five, 
but  looked  older,  from  her  worn  face  and  plain, 
almost  common  style  of  dress — had  refreshed 
and  amused  Josephine  very  much.  While 
heartily  despising  the  doctrine,  that  it  is  ad- 
visable to  pull  one's  self  up  in  the  world  by 
hanging  on  to  the  skirts  of  great  people,  she 
yet  had  acuteness  enough  to  see  that,  both  for 
one's  self  and  one's  children,  it  is  well  to  cul- 
tivate good,  suitable,  and  pleasant  society  ;  ,not 
to  hide  one's  head  in  a  hole,  but  to  see  a  little 
of  the  world,  and  choose  out  of  it  those  friends 
or  acquaintance  from  whom  we  can  get,  or  to 
whom  we  can  give,  the  best,  the  most  symjiiUhy 
and  companionship. 

"My  girls  have  no  friends  at  all now,"thought 
she,  "  and  they  will  want  some.  Adrienne  must 
come  out  this  winter;  poor  little  Adrienne!" 
And  she  sighed,  reflecting  that  in  their  present 
limited  circle  Miss  de  Bougainville's  "coming 
out,"  would  be  in  a  very  moderate  form  in- 
deed. "Still  she  must  in  time  get  to  know  a 
few  people,  and  she  ought  to  learn  to  make 
friends,  as  Lady  Turberville  said.  If  Lady 
Susan  and  Lady  Emily  are  like  their  mother, 
they  might  be  good  companions  for  my  poor 
Adrienne!" 

And  then  the  mother's  mind  wandered  off 
in  all  sorts  of  directions,  as  mothers'  minds  and 
hearts  always  do :  to  Ce'sar  on  his  journey  to 
Oxford ;  to  Louis  and  Martin  at  school ;  and 
back  again  to  her  little  girls  at  home.  Catherine 
was  still  "  the  baby,"  and  treated  as  such  ;  but 
Gabrielle  at  thirteen  looked  nearly  as  womanly 
as  Adrienne.  And  Gabrielle  would  certainly 
grow  up  beautiful  —  how  beautiful,  with  her 
coquettish  and  impulsive  temperament,  the  mo- 
ther was  almost  afraid  to  think.      Still  she  was 


secretly  very  proud  of  her,  as  she  was  of  all  her 
children. 

She  sat  a  long  time  thinking  of  them  all, 
and  watching  the  sun  disappear  behind  the 
hills,  setting  in  glory  upon  what  seemed  to 
have  been  the  loveliest  day  of  the  whole  season, 
and  the  most  enjoyable. 

Alas !  it  was  her  last  day  of  enjoyment,  her 
last  day  of  peace.  . 


CHAPTER  XVL 

Sir  Edward  did  not  come  home  till  very 
late  that  evening,  at  which  his  wife  was  not 
surprised;  he  had  said  that  his  duties  would 
keep  him  late,  and  that  he  should  very  likely 
dine  with  his  brother  magistrates  afterward. 
She  concluded  he  had  done  so ;  but  when  she 
asked  him,  he  said  abruptly.  No. 

"  Food !  give  me  some  food.  And  wine  too, 
for  I  am  quite  exhausted.  You  seem  as  if  you 
took  a  pleasure  in  starving  me." 

Josephine  looked  up  astonished,  so  irritable 
was  his  tone,  so  wild  and  worried  his  look. 

"Something  has  happened.  What  is  it? 
Is  Cesar—" 

"You  always  think  of  Cesar  first,  never  of 
me.  Yes,  he  is  all  right :  he  staid  with  me 
and  saw  me  off  before  his  own  train  started." 

"And  you  —  Edward,  is  there  any  thing 
wrong  with  you  ?"  asked  she,  taking  his  hand 
in  a  sort  of  remorse.     But  he  flung  hers  off. 

"Did  I  say  there  was  any  thing  wrong? 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  There  is  nothing 
the  matter  with  me.'" 

But  there  was ;  and  by-and-by  she  discov- 
ered it.  A  thing  which  at  first  he  made  light 
of,  as  of  no  importance  whatever  to  a  gentleman 
in  his  position,  but  which,  when  little  by  little  she 
learned  its  whole  bearing,  and  saw  with  fright- 
fully clear  eyes  its  possible  results,  was  to  Jose- 
phine one  of  those  sudden  blows  which  seem  oft- 
en to  come  upon  us  poor  mortals  like  thunder- 
bolts, when  the  air  is  most  still,  and  there  had 
seemed  an  hour  ago  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

Be  sure,  soon  or  late,  a  man's  sin  will  find 
him  out.  He,  and  others  for  him,  may  sedu- 
lously hide  it  a  while;  it  may  appear  safely 
buried,  so  that  no  evil  consequences  can  possi- 
bly ensue.  But,  by-and-by,  a  bird  of  the  air 
carries  the  matter,  and  in  one  form  or  another 
retribution  comes. 

By  some  means — how  was  never  discovered, 
for  Josephine  thought  she  had  taken  all  precau- 
tions against  such  a  fatality — that  "  little  bird  ' 
began  to  whisper  abroad,  not  as  a  public  accu- 
sation but  as  a  tale  of  private  scandal,  how  the 
Reverend  Edward  Scanlan  had  willfully  falsi- 
fied the  accounts  of  the  new  school  at  Ditchley, 
and  used  for  his  own  benefit  the  money  which 
had  been  intrusted  to  him.  And  though  the 
charity  had  suffered  no  loss,  the  defalcations 
being  by  some  ingenious  method  or  other  dis- 
covered and  replaced  in  time,  still  the  fact  re- 
mained ;  and  those  people  who  are  always  ready 


128 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


to  envy  a  man  his  sudden  prosperity  bruited  it 
about  from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  it  became  the 
talk  of  the  county. 

Curiously  enough,  the  scandal  had  been  a 
good  while  in  reaching  its  victims.  Sir  Ed- 
ward was  not  a  sensitive  man,  quick  to  discover 
any  slight  indications  of  coolness  toward  him- 
self; and,  besides,  the  report  had  lain  smoul- 
dering in  Ditchley  town,  where  he  never  went, 
for  weeks  before  it  reached  the  ears  of  the 
country  gentlemen,  who  were  mostly  stanch  old 
Tories,  too  proud  to  listen  to  the  gossip  of  the 
lower  classes.  But  having  once  heard  it,  and, 
so  far  as  they  could,  verified  it,  they  resented  in 
a  body  this  intrusion  upon  their  order,  and  es- 
pecially upon  the  magisterial  bench,  of  a  man 
whom  only  a  lucky  chance  had  saved  from  the 
disgrace  of  a  public  prosecution.  He  was  in 
no  danger  of  this  now,  but  as  far  as  honorable 
repute  went,  his  character  was  gone. 

"Only  think,  Josephine,"  said  he,  piteously, 
when  he  had  confessed  all  to  his  wife,  "  all  my 
neighbors  gave  me  the  cold  shoulder ;  and  one 
or  two  of  them  actually  hinted  the  reason  why. 
Such  a  fuss  about  nothing!  You  paid  the 
money  back,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Yes." 

" Then  what  did  it  matter?  These  English 
people  make  money  their  god.  Even  Lord 
Turberville,  who  I  thought  would  protect  me — 
lie  had  only  just  come  home,  and  heard  nothing 
of  this  unfortunate  report  till  to-day — his  lord- 
siiip  took  no  notice  of  me  on  the  bench,  and 
said  to  Langhorne,  that  he  thought  the  wisest 
thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  send  in  my  resig- 
nation immediately." 

"I  think  so  too,"  said,  with  white  lips,  Jo- 
sephine de  Bougainville. 

It  was  no  use  weeping  or  complaining.  The 
miserable  man  before  her  needed  all  her  sup- 
port— all  her  pity.  Under  the  blow  which  had 
fallen  upon  him  he  sank,  as  usual,  utterly  crush- 
ed and  weak — weaker  than  any  woman.  Such 
men  always  are. 

"  They  will  hunt  me  down  like  a  hare,  these 
accursed  country  squires,"  moaned  he.  "I 
shall  never  be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  in  the 
county  again.  And  just  when  I  was  getting  on 
so  well,  and  the  Turbervilles  were  come  home ; 
and  they  might  have  taken  us  by  the  hand  and 
helped  us  into  society.     It's  very  hard  !" 

"It  is  hard,"  said  Josephine,  beneath  her 
breath ;  and  as  she  looked  round  the  cheerful 
drawing-room,  so  handsome  yet  so  home-like, 
her  whole  external  possessions,  her  money,  her 
title,  her  name,  seemed  to  become  valueless. 
She  would  have  given  them  all  to  secure  to  her 
children  that  blessing  which,  though,  thank  God, 
many  families  have  struggled  on  without  it,  is 
yet  the  safest  strong-hold  and  dearest  pride  of  any 
family — a  father's  unstained,  honorable  name. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do,  Josephine  ?  Tell 
me,  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 

She  turned  and  saw  him  crouched — all  but 
kneeling  at  her  feet — the  man  who  was  tied  to 
her  for  life  ;  who,  with  all  his  faults,  was  not  a 


deliberate  villain;  and  who  now,  as  was  his 
wont,  in  his  distress  took  refuge  with  her,  and 
her  alone.  For  a  moment  she  shrank  from 
him — an  expression  of  pain,  unutterable  pain — 
perhaps  something  worse  than  pain — passed  over 
her  face,  and  then  she  feebly  smiled. 

"I  can  not  answer  you  at  once.  Give  me 
time  to  think." 

"  Very  well.  Only,  Josephine,  do  remember 
what  your  poor  husband  has  suffered  this  day. 
For  God's  sake,  do  not  you  be  unkind  to  me!" 

"  No,  I  will  not.  It  is  for  God's  sake,"  she 
repeated  to  herself,  with  a  deep  meaning;  al- 
most as  deep  and  earnest  as  a  prayer. 

During  her  many  hours  of  solitary  musings 
— more  numerous  now  than  ever  in  her  life — 
Josephine  had  learned  much.  That  burning 
sense  of  wrong — wrong  done  to  herself  and  her 
children  by  their  father,  had  in  some  measure 
died  out ;  she  looked  upon  him  sorrowfully,  as 
being  chiefly  his  own  enemy :  she  could  protect 
both  them  and  herself  from  him  now.  And  in 
another  way  her  mind  had  changed  ;  she  begun 
dimly  to  guess  at  the  solemn  truth,  without  which 
all  life  becomes  a  confused  haze — that  what  we 
do  for  people  is  not  for  themselves,  or  for  our- 
selves, but  for  something  higher.  Thus,  it  was 
for  God's  sake,  not  for  his  own,  she  resolved  to 
hold  fast  to  her  husband. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  "indeed  I  never  mean 
to  be  unkind  to  you ;  but  this  is  a  terrible  grief 
to  me.  To  be  sure,  the  thing  is  not  much  worse 
known  than  unknown,  except  so  far  as  it  affects 
the  children.  Had  Cesar  any  idea  of  it,  do 
you  think  ?" 

"  Yes — no.  Well,  yes ;  I  told  him  some- 
thing of  it,"  stammered  Sir  Edward.  "I  had 
nobody  else  to  speak  to,  and  he  saw  how  bro- 
ken-down and  upset  I  was.  Poor  fellow!  he 
insisted  on  seeing  me  safe  off  home  before  he 
started  himself  for  Oxford.  I  must  say  Cesar 
behaved  very  well  to  me  to-day." 

"  My  good  boy !"  muttered  the  mother ;  and 
then  with  a  thrill  of  maternal  suffering  at  how 
he  might  suffer — "  Oh,  my  poor  Cesar!" 

"  Cesar — always  Cesar !  Can't  you  for  one 
moment  think  of  me?" 

Ay,  that  was  the  key  to  this  man's  life.  He 
had  never  thought  but  of  himself,  and  himself 
alone.  Such  a  one — and  oh,  what  hundreds 
there  are  like  him! — ought  never  to  be  either 
husband  or  father. 

Josephine  turned  grave,  reproachful  eyes 
upon  him — the  dead  weight  who  had  dragged 
her  doWn  all  her  days.  It  always  had  been 
so — appirently  it  was  to  be  so  to  the  end. 

"  Edward,  consider  a  little,  and  you  will  find 
I  do  think  of  you ;  but  there  is  plenty  of  time. 
We  have  no  need  to  do  any  thing  in  haste — if 
indeed,"  with  a  sigh,  "any  thing  remains  to  be 
done." 

And  there  came  helplessly  the  thought  upon 
her  of  how  little  could  be  done.  A  lie  she 
could  have  fought  against;  but  there  was  no 
fighting  against  the  truth.  In  a  gentle  way 
she  said  as  nmch. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


129 


"  True  or  not,  Josephine,  I'll  not  bear  it.  Am 
I,  with  all  my  Irish  talent,  to  be  a  by-word  among 
those  clodhopping  English  squires  ?  They  hate 
me  because  I  am  Irish.  I  always  knew  that. 
But  I'll  soon  teach  them  difterently.  I,  with 
my  wealth,  could  take  a  position  wherever  I 
pleased.      We'll  leave  this  place  immediate- 

ly." 

"Leave  this  place?" 

"And  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  quit  this  horrid  old  house ;  you  know 
I  always  disliked  it.  We  can't  sell  it,  more's 
the  pity!  but  we  could  easily  let  it,  and  we 
will." 

*'We  will  not,"  said  Josephine,  roused  to 
desperation. 

"  But  I  say  we  will,  and  I  am  master  here !" 
cried  Sir  Edward,  violently.  "I  have  been 
planning  it  the  whole  way  home,"  added  he, 
more  pacifically,  as  he  saw  that  his  wrath  had 
not  the  slightest  effect  upon  his  wife.  It  only 
tightened  the  shut  lips,  and  gave  an  added 
paleness  to  the  steady,  firm  features.  "We 
can  give  out  that  your  health  requires  us  to 
winter  abroad,  and  go  quietly  away  in  a  week 
or  two.  Once  gone,  we  need  never  come 
back  any  more." 

"Never  come  back  any  more?  When  I 
loved  the  place  so;  when  I  had  settled  down 
here  for  life,  and  was  so  happy! — so  happy! 
Husband,  you  are  very  cmel  to  me!  And 
Heaven  is  cruel  too.  My  troubles  are  more 
than  I  can  bear."  • 

She  sat  down,  wringing  her  hands.  A  kind 
of^espair  came  over  her — the  sudden  reaction 
which  we  often  feel  when  trouble  follows  a  lull 
of  peace — as  sharp  as  the  first  chill  of  returning 
winter.  But  we  get  accustomed  to  it  presently. 
So  did  she. 

Against  this  scheme  of  her  husband's-^ — very 
natural  to  him,  for  his  first  thought  in  any  dif- 
ficulty was  to  run  away — Lady  de  Bougainville 
at  first  rebelled  with  all  her  might.  She  refused 
point-blank  to  quit  her  home — though  she  were 
ignored  by  the  whole  county,  and  though  the 
arrows  of  evil  tongues  were  to  fly  around  her 
head  as  thick  as  hail. 

"  I  am  not  afraid ;  I  have  done  nothing,"  she 
said,  haughtily.  "No  possible  blame  can  at- 
tach to  the  children  or  me.  And,  even  with 
regard  to  what  has  been,  siruje  nobody  was 
really  injured  and  it  will  never  happen  again, 
would  it  not  be  possiUe  t^  remain  and  live  it 
down?"  / 

So  reasoned  she  with  Mr.  Langhorne/ who 
was  the  only  person  whom  in  her  extremity  she 
took  counsel  of:  confessed  the  whole  thing,  and 
asked  him  what  he  thought  would  be  the  wisest 
course. 

"For  my  children's  sake — my  children,  you 
see,"  pleaded  the  poor  mother.  Of  herself  she 
cared  nothing ;  would  gladly  have  hidden  her 
head  any  where  in  merciful  obscurity:  "  Had 
I  not  better  stay  li^re  and  brave  it  out  ?  No- 
body could  bring  up  the  tale  so  as  to  harm  the 
children." 


Mr.  Langhorne  hesitated.  He  knew  the 
world  better  than  she  did.  Still,  she  was  so 
bent  upon  remaining  that  she  resisted  him  as 
much  as  she  did  her  husband,  who,  cowed  by 
her  determined  will,  assumed  the  air  of  a  much- 
injured  and  most  patient  man,  told  her  to  "have 
it  all  her  own  way  •,  he  should  never  say  anoth- 
er word  on  the  subject." 

But  he  did  though  :  reverting  to  it  day  after 
day  with  the  worrying  persistency  of  a  weak  soul 
that  tries  by  every  underhand  means  to  shake  a 
stronger  one.  Alas!  only  too  often  succeed- 
ing. 

For  a  few  weeks  Lady  de  Bougainville  bore 
all  her  misery  at  home,  all  her  slights  abroad 
— some  imaginary,  perhaps,  but  others  real 
enough.  For  the  taint  of  "  something  dishon- 
orable" attached  to  a  family — especially  in  a 
thinly-populated  country  district,  ignorant  of 
the  tricks  of  trade,  great  or  small,  which  are 
practiced  in  larger  communities — is  a  thing  not 
easily  removed.  Long  after  its  exact  circum- 
stances are  forgotten  the  vague  stigma  remains. 
In  proportion  to  his  former  popularity,  his  old 
parishioners,  and  indeed  the  whele  county,  now 
viewed  with  extreme  severity  the  Reverend  Sir 
Edward  de  Bougainville. 

Several  times  Josephine  drove  purposely  to 
Ditchley,  showing  her  ^  face  to  the  world  at 
large,  and  calling  upon  the  people  she  knew ; 
but  they  were  all  rather  cold  to  her,  and  some 
barely  civil.  Lady  Turberville,  whom  she  one 
day  accidentally  met,  though  not  uncourteous — 
for  the  old  lady  stopped  to  speak  to  her,  and 
had  a  tone  of  sympathy  in  her  voice — still  made 
not  the  slightest  inquiry  after  Sir  Edward,  and 
gave  no  hint  of  the  proposed  visit  of  the  Ladies 
Susan  and  Emily  to  Oldham  Court.  In  short, 
that  slight,  untangible  coolness,  that  "  sending 
to  Coventry,"  which  in  a  provincial  neighbor- 
hood is,  socially,  the  ruin  of  any  family,  had 
obviously  befallen  the  De  Bougainvilles.  Once 
begun,  these  things  always  increase  rather  than 
diminish ;  and  however  she  might  shut  her 
eyes  to  it,  Josephine  could  not  help  seeing  be- 
fore her  and  hers  a  future  of  splendid  loneliness, 
duller  and  drearier  even  than  poverty. 

Then,  too,  an  uncomfortable  change,  phys- 
ical and  mental,  came  over  her  husband.  The 
shock  of  his  sudden  fortunes  had  thrown  him 
into  a  rather  excited  condition.  He  had  been 
tgp-heavy  with  prosperity,  so  to  speak,  and 
against  this  sudden  bleak  wind  of  adversity  he 
could  not  fight  at  all.  He  fell  into  a  low  way, 
refused  to  do  any  thing  or  go  any  where,  and 
sat  all  day  long  shivering  over  the  fire,  bemoaning 
his  hard  lot,  and  complaining  that  the  world  was 
all  against  him,  as  it  had  been  from  his  youth 
up.  He  could  not  bear  his  wife  out  of  his 
sight,  yet  when  she  was  in  it  he  was  always 
scolding  her,  saying. she  was  killing  him  by 
inches  in  keeping  him  at  Oldham  Court. 

"  Can  it  be  really  so  ?  What  is  the  matter 
with  him  ?"  she  asked  of  Dr.  Waters,  whom  she 
had  at  last  secretly  summoned — for  Sir  Edward 
refused  all  medical  advice,  saying  that  the  sight 


130 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


of  a  doctor  was  as  good,  or  as  bad,  as  a  death- 
warrant. 

Dr.  Waters  made  no  immediate  reply.  Per- 
haps he  really  had  none  to  give.  That  mys- 
terious disease  called  softening  of  the  brain, 
which  seems  to  attack  the  weakest  and  the 
strongest  brains— letting  the  lucky  mediocre 
ones  go  free — was  then  unnamed  in  medical 
science ;  yet  I  think,  by  all  accounts,  its  earli- 
est symptoms  must  even  then  have  been  devel- 
oping in  Josephine's  husband.  She  knew  it 
not — nobody  knew  it :  but  its  results  were  pain- 
ful enough,  throwing  a  cloud  of  gloom  over  the 
whole  family.  And  upon  this  state  of  things 
the  younger  boys — planning  their  first  Christ- 
mas at  Oldham  Court,  yule-logs  and  guisards, 
according  to  the  merry  Christmas-keeping  of 
all  the  wealthy  families  in  the  county — came 
ignorantly  home.  Cesar  too — but  Ce'sar  was 
not  ignorant,  though  in  all  his  letters  he  had 
never  yet  said  a  word  of  what  he  knew.  He 
only  held  his  mother's  hand  sometimes,  and  fol- 
lowed her  tenderly  about  the  house,  and  made 
things  as  easy  for  her  as  he  could :  but  he 
seemed  to  think — it  was  his  nature  and  had 
been  his  grandfather's  too,  she  remembered — 
that  the  easiest  thing  was  silence. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,"  said  Dr.  Waters,  on  his 
second  visit,  "it  would  be  better  to  go." 

"To  leave  home,  you  mean,  as  my  husband 
wishes — for  a  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  time,"  repeated  the  doctor,  with 
his  eyes  cast  down.  "  Long  or  short,  as  may 
be  advisable.  Change  of  scene,  without  de- 
lay, is,  I  think,  very  necessary  for  Sir  Edward. 
And  for  the  boys — they  have  but  a  dull  life 
here.  You  will  return  in  triumph,"  added  he, 
cheerfully,  "in  time  to  have  an  ox  roasted 
whole,  and  all  sorts  of  rejoicings  when  Cesar 
comes  of  age." 

Lady  de  Bougainville  turned  sharply  away. 
How  all  her  delights  had  crumbled  down  to 
dust  and  ashes  I  Alas,  to  what  sort  of  an  in- 
heritance would  he  come,  her  handsome  young 
heir?  And  who  would  stand  up  and  wish  him 
the  heir's  best  benediction,  that  he  might  tread 
in  his  father's  footsteps  all  his  days  ? 

Nevertheless,  she  could  but  follow  where  fate 
led,  and  do  the  best  that  seemed  possible  for 
the  time  being.  So  standing  at  her  favorite 
oriel  window,  looking  down  the  straight  ever- 
green alleys  of  her  beloved  garden,  where  tjje 
holly  berries  shone  scarlet  in  the  winter  sun, 
and  the  arbutus-trees  were  glittering  under  the 
first  white  dust  of  snow,  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  leave  Oldham  Court ;  to  slip  the  dear,  safe 
anchor  of  home,  and  go  drifting  about  upon  the 
wide  world. 

Some  may  count  this  a  very  small  thing — a 
very  infinitesimal  sacrifice ;  but  I  know  better. 
However,  it  was  made ;  and  having  once  put 
her  hand  to  the  plow  she  never  looked  back, 
but  drove  it  straight  through  her  pleasant  flow- 
ers with  a  firm  remorseless  hand. 

Of  course,  her  husband  was  delighted.  She 
had  come  to  her  senses  at  last,  and  he  congrat- 


ulated her  accordingly.  He  laid  plan  after 
plan  of  what  he  should  like  best  to  do,  what 
would  amuse  him  most ;  and  at  last  thought, 
considering  it  was  winter  time,  and  rather  too 
early  for  the  London  season,  it  would  be  well 
to  adopt  a  suggestion  which  somebody  or  other 
threw  out,  and  take  a  tour  through  the  cathe- 
dral towns  of  England. 

"You  see,  this  will  be  particularly  suitable 
for  me  in  my  character  of  a  clergyman."  For 
since  politics  and  the  Earl  of  Turberville  had 
lost  their  charm  he  went  back  upon  that,  and 
became  once  more  stricter  than  ever  in  his  re- 
ligious observances. 

Josephine  cared  little  where  she  went.  So, 
mostly  by  chance,  the  thing  was  decided.  They 
were  to  begin  with  Canterbury. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  take  the  children 
with  us,  my  dear?"  said  Sir  Edward,  queru- 
lously. "I  shall  have  no  pleasure  at  all  if  I  am 
bothered  with  a  lot  of  children  at  my  heels." 
So  Josephine  gave  this  up  too. 

Her  last  few  days  at  Oldham  Court  appeared, 
she  herself  once  told  me,  to  have  fled  exactly 
like  a  dream.  The  whole  thing  was  done  sud- 
denly— leaving  the  children  behind  in  charge 
of  the  good  governess  and  Bridget.  She  in- 
tended to  come  back  and  shut  up  the  house, 
for  she  obstinately  refused  to  let  it;  but  still, 
when  the  carriage  slowly  ascended  the  hUly 
road,  and  she  looked  down  on  the  gray  gat)les-. 
nestling  in  sunshine  in  the  valley  below,  she 
had  a  fatal  foreboding  that  she  should  nevc'v 
see  Oldham  Court  again.     She  never  did. 

I  do  not  mean  to  make  any  pathetic  sc^ne 
out  of  all  this.  Many  persons  might  say  that 
all  Lady  de  Bougainville's  regrets  on  the  sub- 
ject were  mere  morbid  imagination,  when  she 
had  so  many  tangible  blessings  left  her  to  enjoy. 
It  might  be,  and  yet  I  pity  her,  and  can  under- 
stand how  she  fell  into  a  kind  of  dull  despond- 
ency, very  unusual  for  her,  which  lasted  for 
several  days. 

Out  of  it  she  was  roused  by  a  chance  inci- 
dent ;  one  of  those  small  things  which  are  often 
the  pivot  upon  which  much  greater  things  turn. 
Wandering  round  Canterbury  cathedral  aim- 
lessly enough — for  Sir  Edward  took  little  inter- 
est in  ecclesiastical  architecture,  and  was  much 
more  interested  in  finding  out  where  the  Dean- 
ery was,  and  whether  he  ought  not  to  call  upon 
the  Dean,  whom  he  had  once  met,  and  who 
would  probably  ask  them  to  dinner — Lady  de 
Bougainville  came  upon  thq  queer  old  door 
leading  to  that  portion  of  the  crypt  which,  ever 
since  the  Vevocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes — 
indeed,  I  believe,  earlier  still  —  has  been  as- 
signed by  law  and  custom  to  the  use  of  the 
French  Protestants  whose  forefathers  had  taken 
refuge  in  England.  While  asking  a  question 
or  two  of  the  verger,  she  dimly  recollected  hav- 
ing heard  of  the  place  before.  Her  father  had 
once  "  assisted"  at  a  Sunday  service  there,  and 
described  it  to  her.  Keenly  interested,  she 
tried  to  peer  through  the  cracks  in  the  door  and 
the  spidery  windows.     Little  was  to  be  seen ; 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


131 


OLDHAM   OOUET. 


l)ut  she  managed  to  catch  a  few  glimpses  of  the 
interior,  the  low-arched  ceiling,  whitewashed 
like  the  walls  ;  the  plain,  common  wooden  pews 
and  pulpit,  whereon  lay  a  book,  torn  and  worm- 
eaten — a  centuries-old  French  Huguenot  Bible 
— for  she  could  read  the  words  "  Saincte  Ecri- 
ture"  on  the  open  title-page. 

A  strange  contrast  it  was,  this  poor,  plain — 
pathetically  plain — little  conventicle,  to  the 
magnificent  cathedral  overhead,  where  she  had 
just  been  hearing  service ;  but  it  suited  her 
present  state  of  mind  exactly.  Sickened  of 
wealth,  feeling  the  hollowness  of  the  sham 
pomps  about  her,  her  heart  seemed  to  spring 
back  like  an  overbent  bow  to  the  noble  poverty 
of  her  childish  days,  to  the  rigid  uncompromis- 
ing faith  of  her  French  forefathers. 

*' Every  Sunday  they  have  service  here,  you 
say?"  she  asked  of  the  verger.  "Edward, 
shall  we  go  to-morrow  ?  I  should  like  it  very 
much." 

"I  dare  say:  you  always  do  like  common 
and  ungenteel  places.  No,  I  would  not  be  seen 
there  upon  any  account." 

"  No  matter,"  she  thought,  "  I  will  go  alone." 
And  next  day,  while  her  husband  was  taking  a 
long  sleep,  she  sallied  forth  through  the  rainy 
streets  ;  wrapping  herself  up  in  her  cloak,  and 
trudging  on,  almost  as  Mrs.  Scanlan  used  to 
trudge,  in  days  gone  by.  No  fear,  she  thought, 
of  her  being  recognized  as  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville. 

And  yet,  when  she  passed  under  the  low 
door  of  the  crypt,  entering  side  by  side  with 
that  small  and  rather  queer-looking  congrega- 


tion, chiefly  French  artificers  of  various  sorts, 
with  their  wives  and  families,  descendants  of 
the  early  emigres  or  later  comers  into  the  town, 
who,  but  for  this  ancient  institution  of  service 
under  the  cathedral,  would  probably  long  ago 
have  forgotten  their  religion  and  race,  and  be- 
come altogether  amalgamated  with  the  Inhab- 
itants of  Canterbury ;  when  she  looked  at  them, 
and  heard  in  faint  whispers  that  tongue  of  an- 
other land,  as  they  noticed  the  rare  presence  of 
a  stranger  among  them — Josephine  began  to 
feel  strange  stirrings  in  her  heart. 

It  is  curious,  as  we  advance  in  middle  life, 
especially  when  there  is  a  great  gulf  between 
that  life  and  our  childish  one,  how  sharp  and 
distinct  the  latter  grows!  For  years,  except 
in  her  children's  caressing  chatter,  Josephine 
had  scarcely  heard  the  sound  of  her  native 
tongue — that  is,  her  ancestors'  tongue,  for,  as  I 
said,  she  herself  had  been  born  after  her  parents 
quitted  France ;  nor  since  childhood  had  she 
been  in  any  place  of  worship  like  that  which 
her  father  used  to  take  her  to — a  bare  meeting- 
house, rough  as  this,  of  which  it  strongly  re- 
minded her.  When  she  sat  down,  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  the  old  Vicomte  sat  beside  her 
with  his  gentle  "  »Soi  sage,  ma  petite  Jille.'" 
And  when  the  minister,  in  his  high  French  in- 
tonation, a  little  "singsong"  and  long  drawn 
out,  began  to  read:  '•'- L' Evangile  selon  Saint 
Jean,  chapitre  premier.  La  Parole  €tait  au  com- 
mencement :  la  Parole  ^tait  avec  Dieu,  et  la  Pa- 
role €tait  Dieu'' — old  times  came  back  upon  her 
so  forcibly  that  it  was  with  diflSculty  she  could 
restrain  her  tears. 


132 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


What  the  congregation  thought  of  her  she  I 
knew  not,  cared  not.  Possibly,  for  many  Sun- 
days after,  those  simple  people  talked  of  and 
looked  for  the  strange  lady  who  that  Sunday 
had  worshiped  with  them  —  whether  French- 
woman or  Englishwoman  they  could  not  tell, 
only  that  she  had  left  in  the  alms-box  several 
bright  English  sovereigns,  which  helped  on  the 
poor  of  the  flock  through  a  very  hard  winter. 
She  came  and  she  went,  speaking  to  nobody, 
and  nobody  venturing  to  speak  to  her,  but  the 
influence  of  those  two  hours  effected  in  her 
mind  a  complete  revolution. 

"I  will  go  home,''  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
walked  back  through  Canterbury  streets,  still 
in  the  pelting  rain  ;  "  home  to  my  father's  faith 
and  my  father's  people,  if  any  of  them  yet  re- 
main. I  will  bring  up  my  children  not  En- 
glish but  French ;  after  the  noble  old  Huguenot 
pattern,  such  as  my  father  used  to  tell  me  of, 
and  such  as  he  was  himself.  Mon  pere,  mon 
p'erer 

It  was  a  dream,  of  course,  springing  out  of 
her  entire  ignorance ;  as  Utopian  as  many  an- 
other fancy  which  she  had  cherished,  only  to 
see  it  melt  away  like  a  breaking  wave ;  still  at 
present  it  was  forced  so  strongly  upon  her  mind 
that  it  gave  her  a  gleam  of  new  hope.  Almost 
as  soon  as  she  returned  to  the  hotel,  she  pro- 
posed to  her  husband,  with  feigned  careless- 
ness, for  he  now  generally  objected  to  any  thing 
which  he  saAV  she  had  set  her  heart  upon — that 
instead  of  continuing  their  tour  in  this  gloomy 
weather,  they  should  at  once  send  for  the  chil- 
dren, cross  the  Channel,  and  spend  the  New 
Year  in  Paris,  le  jour  de  Van  being  such  a  very 
amusing  time. 

"Is  it?"  said  Sir  Edward,  catching  at  the 
notion.  "And  I  want  amusing  so  much !  Yes, 
I  think  I  should  like  to  go.  How  soon  could 
we  start?" 

"I  think,  within  a  week." 

She  despised  herself  for  humoring  him ;  for 
leading  him  by  means  of  his  whims  instead  of 
his  reason  to  needful  ends,  but  she  was  often 
obliged  to  do  both  now.  A  curious  kind  of 
artfulness,  and  childish  irritability  mingled  with 
senile  obstinacy,  often  seized  him ;  when  he 
was  very  difficult  to  manage ;  he  who  as  a 
young  man  had  been  so  pleasant  and  good- 
tempered,  in  truth  a  better  temper  than  she. 
But  things  were  different  now. 

Ere  her  husband  could  change  his  mind, 
which  he  was  apt  to  do,  and  ere  the  novelty  of 
the  fresh  idea  wore  off",  Lady  de  Bougainville 
hastily  made  all  her  arrangements,  left  Oldham 
Court  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Langhorne ;  sent  for 
her  children  and  some  of  her  servants,  and  al- 
most before  she  recognized  the  fact  herself,  was 
in  the  land  of  her  forefathers,  the  very  city 
where  more  than  one  of  the  last  generation 
of  them  had  expiated  on  the  guillotine  the 
crime  of  having  been  noble,  in  the  best  sense 
of  the  word,  for  centuries.  As  Josephine  drove 
through  the  streets  in  the  chilly  winter  dusk, 
she  thought  with  a  curious  fancy  of  how  her 


father  must  have  looked,  wakened  early  one 
morning,  a  poor  crying  child,  to  see  the  death- 
cart,  with  his  father  in  it,  go  by ;  and  again, 
Avith  a  shudder,  how  her  beautiful  great-aunt 
must  have  felt  when  the  cold  steel  first  touched 
her  neck.  Ah !  but  those  were  terrible  times, 
to  be  so  near  behind  us  as  seventy  years ! 

Paris,  such  as  Lady  de  Bougainville  then 
saw  it,  and  as  long  afterward  she  used  to  de- 
scribe it  to  me,  lingering  with  the  loving  garm- 
lousness  of  age  upon  things,  and  places,  and 
people,  all  swept  away  into  the  gulf  of  the  past 
— ancient  Paris  exists  no  more.  Imperial  "  im- 
provements," so-called,  have  swept  away  nearly 
all  its  historical  landmarks,  and  made  it,  what 
probably  its  present  ruler  most  desired  it  should 
be  made,  a  city  without  a  history.  When  I 
visited  it  myself,  wishful  as  I  was  to  retrace  the 
steps  of  our  dear  old  friend,  and  tell  her  on  our 
return  about  these  places  she  knew,  we  could 
find  almost  none  of  them.  Except  the  quaint 
old  Rue  St.  Honore,  where  in  an  hotel,  half 
French,  half  English,  which  Sir  Edward  took  a 
fancy  to,  she  lived  during  her  whole  residence 
there. 

I  know  not  if  it  were  the  stirring  of  the  mer- 
curial ancestral  blood,  or  merely  the  bright, 
clear,  sunshiny  atmosphere,  but  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville felt  her  heart  lighter  as  soon  as  she 
entered  Paris.  She  was  not  one  to  mourn  over 
the  inevitable ;  Oldham  Court  was  left  behind, 
but  she  had  many  pleasant  things  surrounding 
her  still.  She  went  sight-seeing  almost  every 
morning  with  her  happy  children,  and  of  after- 
noons she  took  her  daily  drive  with  Sir  Ed- 
ward, showing  him  every  thing  she  could  think 
of  to  amuse  him — and  he  really  was  amused, 
for  the  time.  His  health  and  spirits  revived ; 
he  confessed  Paris  was  a  pleasant  place  to  win- 
ter in,  or  would  be,  as  soon  as  they  came  to 
know  people,  and  to  be  known.  With  this  end 
in  view  he  haunted  Galignani's,  and  was  on  the 
qui  vive  for  all  the  English  visitors  to  the  hotel, 
in  case  some  of  their  names  might  be  familiar 
to  him. 

But  in  Paris,  as  in  London,  came  the  same 
difficulty  inevitable  under  the  circumstances. 
Socially,  the  De  Bougainvilles  had  not  yet  risen 
to  the  level  of  their  mpney,  "and  beyond  a  cer- 
tain point  it  helped  them  little.  They  were 
almost  as  lonely,  and  as  entirely  without  ac- 
quaintances, in  the  Rue  St.  Honore  as  they  had 
been  in  St.  James's  Street.  Vainly  did  Sir  Ed- 
ward harry  his  wife's  memory  for  the  name  of 
every  noble  family  with  whom  her  father  had 
had  to  do,  hoping  to  hunt  them  out,  and  thrust 
himself  upon  them.  Vainly,  too,  did  he  urge 
her  to  leave  a  card  at  the  British  Embassy,  or 
even  at  the  Tuileries,  for  one  De  Bougainville 
had  been  about  fifty  years  ago  a  very  faithful 
friend  to  one  of  the  Orleans  family.  But  some- 
thing— was  it  pride  or  was  it  shame — or  per- 
haps merely  natural  reticence?  —  made  Jose- 
phine steadily  and  firmly  decline  these  back- 
stairs methods  of  getting  into  society. 

Cesar,  too,  who  was  nearly  grown  up  now, 


A  BRAVE  LADY 

had  a  great  dislike  to  the  thing.  "Mamma," 
he  would  say,  "if  people  do  not  seek  us  of 
their  own  accord,  and  for  ourselves,  I  had  rath- 
er have  no  friends  or  acquaintance  at  all.  "VVe 
can  do  very  well  without  them." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Lady  de  Bougainville. 
But  she  did  not  perplex  herself  much  about  the 
matter.  She  knew  the  lack  was  only  tempo- 
raiy.  Every  time  she  looked  at  her  son,  who  to 
his  natural  grace  was  daily  adding  that  air  of 
manliness  and  gentlemanliness  which  the  asso- 
ciations of  University  life  give  to  almost  every 
young  fellow,  more  or  less,  she  smiled  to  her- 
self with  perfect  content.  There  was  no  fear 
of  her  Cesar's  not  making  friends  every  where 
by-and-by. 

He  was  her  consolation  for  a  good  many 
things  which  she  found  difficult  to  bear.  Not 
great  things ;  she  had  no  heavy  troubles  now ; 
but  little  vexations.  It  was  sometimes  very 
trying  to  watch  the  slight  shrugs  or  covert 
smiles  with  which  the  civil  Frenchmen  he  met 
at  tables  d'hote,  theatres,  etc.,  commented  si- 
lently on  the  brusquerie  or  "  bumptiousness"  of 
the  rich  milord  Aiiglais,  who  was  always  assert- 
ing his  right  to  the  best  of  every  thing.  For 
in  a  foreign  country,  more  patent  than  ever  be- 
comes the  fact  that,  however  his  rank  or  wealth, 
no  thoroughly  selfish  man  ever  is,  or  even  ap- 
pears, a  gentleman. 

Rich  as  Sir  Edward  was,  he  found  that  when 
one's  only  key  to  society  is  a  golden  one,  it 
takes  a  good  while  to  fit  it  in.  He  was  grow- 
ing weary  of  the  delay,  and  speculating  whether 
it  would  not  be  well  to  leave  Paris,  when  the 
magic  "  open  sesame"  to  his  heart's  desire  ar- 
rived in  a  very  unexpected  way. 

With  a  vague  yearning  after  her  father's 
faith,  dimly  as  she  understood  it,  a  restless  seek- 
ing after  something  upon  which  to  stay  her  soul, 
sickened  with  the  religious  hollowness  amidst 
which  she  had  lived  so  long,  Josephine  went, 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  to  the  French  Protestant 
Chapel.  Not  that  the  preacher  could  teach 
much — few  preachers  can,  to  hearers  like  her- 
self, whose  sharp  experience  of  life  mocks  all 
dogmatizing  as  mere  idle  words ;  it  is  God  only 
who  can  bring  faith  to  a  soul  which  has  lost  all 
faith  in  man.  But  she  liked  to  listen  to  the 
mellifluous  French  of  the  good  old  minister — 
liked  too  the  simplicity  of  the  service,  and  the 
evident  earnestness  of  the  congregation.  An 
earnestness  quite  different  from  that  of  the  wor- 
shipers she  saw  in  Catholic  churches,  though 
this  was  touching  too.  She  often  envied  those 
poor  kneeling  women  praying  even  to  a  Saint 
or  a  Holy  Virgin  in  whom  they  could  believe. 

But  these  French  Protestants  seemed  to  wor- 
ship God  a.i  she  thought  He  would  best  desire 
to  be  worshiped — open-eyed,  fearless-hearted, 
even  as  their  forefathers  and  hers  had  done,  in 
valleys  and  caves,  persecuted  and  hunted  to 
death,  yet  never  renouncing  Him.  The  differ- 
ence, so  difficult  to  understand,  between  faith 
and  superstition,  was  there  still.  She  often 
fancied  that  in  these  nineteenth-century  faces 


133 

she  could  still  detect  gleams  of  the  old  Hugue- 
not spirit,  with  its  strength,  its  courage,  its  un- 
paralleled self-devotion.  A  spirit  as  different 
from  that  of  Catholic  France  as  that  of  the  Pu- 
ritans and  Covenanters  was  from  that  corrupt 
Court  of  the  Stuarts. 

She  was  in  a  dream  of  this  kind,  such  as  she 
fell  into  almost  every  Sunday — when,  looking 
up,  she  saw  among  these  stranger  faces  a  face 
she  knew ;  and  as  soon  as  service  was  over 
she  hurried  after  the  person,  who  was  Priscilla 
Nunn. 

"How  came  you  here?  Who  would  have 
expected  it  ?  My  good  Priscilla,  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you — so  very  glad ! " 

The  woman  courtesied,  looking  pleased,  said 
she  had  watched  "  my  Lady"  for  several  Sun- 
days, but  thought  perhaps  my  Lady  did  not 
care  to  notice  her.  That  she  had  given  up 
business  and  gone  back  to  her  old  profession, 
and  was  now  living  as  nurse  and  humble  com- 
panion with  Lady  Emma  Lascelles. 

"She  is  very  ill,  my  Lady — will  never  be 
better.  She  often  speaks  of  you.  Shall  I  tell 
her  I  saw  you  ?" 

"  No — yes,"  hesitated  Josephine,  for  she  had 
been  a  little  wounded  by  Lady  Emma's  long 
silence,  which,  however,  this  illness  explained. 
She  stood  perplexed,  but  still  cordially  holding 
Priscilla  by  the  hand,  when  she  saw  her  hus- 
band waiting  for  her  in  the  carriage,  and  watch- 
ing her  with  astonished  suspicious  eyes.  Hast- 
ily she  gave  her  address,  and  joined  him ;  for  she 
well  knew  what  vials  of  wrath  would  be  poured 
out  upon  her  devoted  head.  As  was  really  the 
case,  until  Sir  Edward  discovered  with  whom 
the  obnoxious  Priscilla  was  living. 

"  Lady  Emma !  Then  you  must  at  once 
call  upon  her.  She  may  be  of  the  greatest 
service  to  you.  She  used  to  be  so  very  fond 
of  you.     Where  is  she  residing  ?" 

Josephine  had  never  asked  ;  but  her  pride  or 
reticence  was  rendered  needless  by  Mr.  Las- 
celles's  appearing  the  very  next  day  to  entreat 
her  to  visit  his  wife,' who  was  longing  to  see  her. 
So,  without  more  ado,  Lady  de  Bougainville 
put  on  her  bonnet  as  rapidly  as  Mrs.  Scanlan 
used  to  do,  and  went  alone,  a.  street's  length, 
to  the  quiet  faubourg,  where,  surrounded  by  all 
Parisian  elegance  and  luxurj',  the  young  creat- 
ure, who  had  once  come  to  Ditchley  as  a  bride, 
lay  fading  away.  She  had  lost  child  after 
child — hopes  rising  only  to  be  blighted  ;  and 
now,  far  gone  in  consumption,  was  slipping 
peacefully  out  of  a  world  which  upon  her  had 
opened  so  brightly  and  closed  so  soon.  Yet 
she  still  took  her  usual  warm  human  interest  in 
it,  and  was  exceedingly  glad  to  see  again  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

"An  old  friend  in  a  new  face,"  she  said, 
smiling;  "  but  nothing  would  ever  much  alter 
you.  I  am  glad  my  cousin  left  you  all  his 
money;  nobody  else  wanted  it,  and  you  can 
make  good  use  of  it,  and  enjoy  it  too.  You 
have  your  children."  And  poor  Lady  Emma 
burst  into  tears. 


134 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


After  this  the  two  women  renewed  all  their 
former  intimacy;  and  as  Mr.  Lascelles  knew 
every  body,  and  surrounded  his  wife  with  as 
many  pleasant  people  as  he  could  think  of,  to 
amuse  her,  it  so  happened  that  this  mere 
chance,  occurring  through  such  an  humble  me- 
dium as  Priscilla  Nunn,  furnished  the  means 
by  which  the  De  Bougainvilles  entered  into 
Parisian  society.  Really  good  society,  such  as 
even  Sir  Edward  approved  ;  for  it  included 
people  iof  higher  rank  than,  in  his  wildest  am- 
bition, he  had  ever  expected  to  mix  with. 

The  Court,  then  resident  at  Paris,  must  have 
been,  so  long  as  it  lasted,  one  of  the  best  and 
purest  Courts  which  France  has  ever  known. 
Whatever  its  political  mistakes  or  misfortunes, 
domestically  it .  was  without  alloy.  No  one 
could  enter  the  household  circle  of  the  citizen- 
king  without  admiring  and  loving  it.  High- 
toned,  yet  simple;  fond  of  art  and  literature, 
yet  rating  moral  worth  above  both  these  ;  com- 
bining the  old  aristocratic  grace  with  the  liber- 
alism of  the  time,  and  assigning  to  rank,  wealth, 
talent,  each  its  fitting  place  and  due  honor — 
though  many  years  have  elapsed  since  its  dis- 
persion and  downfall,  all  those  now  living  who 
knew  it  speak  tenderly  of  the  Court  of  Louis 
Philippe. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  did,  to  her  very  last 
hour.  Whether  she  "  shone"  therein,  I  can 
not  tell — she  never  said  so ;  but  she  keenly 
enjoyed  it.  More,  certainly,  than  her  husband, 
who,  after  his  first  flush  of  delight,  found  him- 
self a  little  out  of  his  element  there.  He  could 
not  understand  the  perfect  simplicity  of  those 
great  people,  who  could  associate  with  poor 
authors  and  artists  upon  equal  terms ;  who 
were  friendly  and  kind  to  their  servants ;  and 
who,  instead  of  going  about  all  day  with  alle- 
gorical crowns  on  their  heads,  were  in  reality 
very  quiet  persons,  who  would  condescend  to 
the  commonest  things  and  pursuits — such  as 
shocked  much  a  grand  personage  like  Sir  Ed- 
ward de  Bougainville.  He  was  altogether 
puzzled,  and  sometimes  a  little  uncomfortable  ; 
finally  he  held  aloof,  and  let  his  wife  go  into 
society  alone,  or  with  the  companionship  of  her 
daughter. 

Adrienne  "  came  out.''  Sitting  beside  her 
beautiful  mother,  as  shy  and  silent  as  any 
French  demoiselle,  but  much  amused  by  what 
she  saw  around  her,  she  looked  on,  taking 
little  share  in  the  gay  world,  until  she  saw  her- 
self put  forward  as  a  desirable  '''' partie"  by  an 
energetic  French  mother,  when  she  turned  in 
frightened  appeal  to  her  own,  and  the  '■'■  preten- 
(hC'  was  speedily  extinguished.  Nevertheless, 
in  spite  of  her  plain  looks  and  defect  in  figure, 
the  reported  large  "  dot""  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Bougainville  attracted  several  chances  of  mar- 
riage -fy  to  which  Adrienne  was  as  indifferent — 
and  even  amused — as  her  mother  could  desire. 

But  henceforth  Josephine  often  thought  with 
some  anxiety  of  this  dear  child,  so  unlike  her- 
self, so  unfit  to  battle  with  the  world.  Shrink- 
ing, timid,  easily  led  and  influenced,  Adrienne 


inherited  much  from  her  father,  and  almost  no- 
thing from  her  mother,  except  her  uprightness 
and  sincerity. 

"If  you  do  marry,"  Lady  de  Bougainville 
sometimes  said  to  her,  "it  must  be  some  one 
who  will  be  very  good  to  you,  some  one  whom 
I  can  entirely  trust,  or  I  shall  break  my  heart,' 
Sometimes  I  hope,  my  darling,  that  you  will 
not  marry  at  all." 

"  Very  likely  not,  mamma,"  Adrienne  would 
answer,  blushing  brightly.  "  I  certainly  would 
rather  not  marry  a  Frenchman." 

So  the  mother  rested,  content  that  none  of 
these  gay  young  fellows,  who,  she  felt  sure, 
only  sought  her  for  her  money,  had  touched 
the  heart  of  her  young  daughter,  whom  she  still 
called  fondly  her  "little"  girl. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

When  they  had  been  a  year  at  Paris,  or 
near  it — for  in  the  fashionable  season  for  "/a 
campagne"  they  drifted  with  the  usual  Parisian 
crowd  to  some  place  sufficiently  in  reach  of  the 
city  not  to  be  dull — Sir  Edward  began  to  sug- 
gest moving  On.  There  was  a  curious  restless- 
ness about  him  which  made  him  never  settle 
any  where.  Back  to  Oldham  Court  he  posi- 
tively refused  to  go ;  and  when  the  subject  was 
fairly  entered  upon,  Josephine  found  that  her 
son  Cesar  had  the  same  repugnance.  He  and 
she  had  never  spoken  together  of  that  fatal 
rumor  which  had  been  the  secret  cause  of  their 
sudden  departure ;  but  that  the  proud,  hqnest, 
reticent  boy  knew  it,  and  felt  it  acutely,  she 
was  well  aware. 

"No,  mother,"  he  said,  when  she  consulted 
with  him,  for  she  had  already  learned  to  rest 
upon  his  premature  wisdom  and  good  sense ; 
"don't  let  us  go  back  to  Oldham  Court  —  at 
least  not  for  some  years.  The  house  will  take 
no  harm,  and  the  land  is  well  let ;  Mr.  Lang- 
horne,  last  time  he  was  at  Oxford,  told  me  that 
you  will  be  richer  by  letting  it  than  living  at  it ; 
and  I  don't  want  to  live  there — never  again  I 
Besides,"  hastening  to  heal  up  a  wound  he 
thought  he  had  made,  "you  see,  I  must  be  a 
busy  man,  must  enter  a  profession,  work  my 
way  up  in  the  world,  and  earn  my  own  fortune. 
Then,  mother  darling,  you  shall  have  Oldham 
Court  for  your  dower-house,  when  you  are  an 
old  lady. " 

She  smiled,  and  ceased  urging  her  point, 
though  she  was  pining  for  a  settled  resting- 
place.  At  last  Cesar  saw  this,  and  went  hunt- 
ing about  England  on  pedestrian  tours  till  he 
succeeded  in  finding  a  place  that  he  felt  sure 
she  would  like,  and  his  father  too— a  large,  old- 
fashioned  mansion  ;  not  Gothic,  but  belonging 
to  the  time  of  Queen  Anne ;  fallen  into  much 
disrepair,  but  still  capable  of  being  revived  into 
its  original  splendor. 

"And  you  will  have  quite  money  enough  to 
do  this,  Mr.  Langhorne  says,"  added  the  pru- 
dent boy.     "And  the  doing  of  it  would  amuse 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


135 


papa  so  much.  Besides,  it  is  such  a  beautiful 
old  place ;  and  oh,  what  a  park !  what  trees ! 
Then  the  rooms  are  so  lofty,  and  large,  and 
square.  You  might  give  such  dinners  and 
balls — I  like  a  ball,  you  know.  Dearest  mo- 
ther, please  think  twice  before  you  throw  over- 
board our  chance  of  Brierley  Hall. " 

She  promised,  though  with  little  interest  in 
the  matter — as  little  interest  as  we  sometimes 
take  in  places  or  people  which  are  to  be  our 
destiny.  And  Oldham  Court — which  she  loved 
so,  which  she  had  set  her  heart  upon — she  fore- 
saw only  too  clearly,  would  never  be  her  home 
any  more. 

Still,  she  would  have  done  almost  any  thing 
to  please  Cesar,  who  was  growing  up  her  heart's 
delight.  He  only  came  to  Paris  on  passing 
visits,  being  quite  taken  up  with  his  Oxford 
life,  in  which  his  earnest  perseverance  atoned 
for  any  lack  of  brilliant  talents  ;  and  he  worked 
for  his  degree  like  any  poor  lad,  forgetting  he 
was  heir  to  a  wealthy  gentleman,  and  scarcely 
even  remembering  his  twenty-first  birthday, 
which  passed  by  without  any  oxen  roasted 
whole  or  other  external  rejoicings — except  the 
joy  of  his  mother  that  he  was  now  a  man,  with 
his  career  safe  in  his  own  hands. 

Ce'sar  was  after  all  more  of  an  Englishman 
than  a  Frenchman,  even  in  spite  of  his  resem- 
blance to  his  grandfather,  so  strong  that  more 
than  one  old  courtier  had  come  up  to  him  and 
welcomed  the  descendant  of  M.  le  Vicomte  de 
Bougainville.  But  the  young  fellow  added  to 
his  English  gravity  that  charming  French  grace 
which  we  Britons  often  lack,  and  his  tall  figure 
and  handsome  looks  made  him  noticeable  in 
every  salon  where  he  appeared. 

His  proud  mother  had  especially  remarked 
this  on  one  evening  which  had  a  painful  close. 

It  was  a  reception,  whither  she  and  her  son 
went  alone  together — Sir  Edward  having  de- 
sired that  Adrienne  would  remain  at  home  and 
play  dominos  with  him — since  he  had  been  in 
France  he  had  taken  greatly  to  that  harmless 
game,  which  seemed  to  suit  hun  exactly.  And 
Adrienne  had  obeyed,  a  little  reluctantly,. as 
the  reception  was  at  a  house  where,  timid  as 
she  was,  she  liked  to  go.  For  the  hostess  was 
a  lady  who,  though  too  poor  to  "entertain"  as 
we  English  understand  the  word — indeed.  Sir 
Edward  complained  bitterly  that  he  never  got 
any  thing  at  her  reunions  but  biscuits  and  weak 
raspberry  vinegar— yet,  by  her  eifquisite  tact 
and  cultivated  grace,  which  is  oftert  better  than 
talent  in  a  woman,  succeeded  in  gathering 
around  her  once  a  week  all  the  notable  people 
in  Paris.  As  4Lady  de  Bougainville  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  assemblage,  with  Ce'sar  at  her 
side,  I  could  imagine  that  mother  and  son  were 
a  good  sight  to  behold,  both  by  one  another 
and  by  the  brilliant  throng  around  them. 

"  Still,  we  ought  to  go  home,"  she  whispered 
to  him,  more  than  once,  even  while  giving  her- 
self up,  half  Frenchwoman  as  she  was,  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  minute,  allowing  herself  to 
rest,  gay  and  at  ease,  on  the  summit  of  one  of 


those  sunshiny  waves  which  are  forever  rising 
and  falling  in  most  human  lives.  "I  should 
like  to  return  even  sooner  than  we  promised, 
in  case  papa  might  be  a  little  dull.  He  told 
me  that  he  was  to  be  quite  alone  at  home  to- 
night." 

"Indeed!"  said  Ce'sar,  dryly.  "I  thought 
I  overheard  him  giving  orders  about  a  little 
supper  that  was  to  be  prepared  for  some  vis- 
itor he  expected.  But,"  added  the  lad,  with 
meaning,  "papa  often — forgets." 

"Ce'sar!" said  Lady  de  Bougainville,  sharp- 
ly ;  and  then,  almost  with  a  kind  of  entreaty, 
"Do  not  be  hard  upon  your  father." 

The  mother  and  son  came  home  at  once, 
though  it  was  half  an  hour  before  they  wereex- 
pected  and,  apparently,  wanted.  For  there, 
sitting  opposite  to  Sir  Edward,  playing  domi- 
nos with  him,  and  amusing  him  till  he  burst 
into  shouts  of  laughter,  which  were  faintly 
echoed  by  Adrienne — who  hung  about  the  two, 
looking  as  happy  and  delighted  as  she  had  used 
to  do  of  evenings  at  Wren's  Nest — was  the  ob- 
ject of  Josephine's  long  dislike  and  dread — Mr. 
Summerhayes. 

There  are  women,  justifiably  the  aversion  of 
their  husbands'  male  friends,  rigidly  righteous, 
and  putting  virtue  forward  in  such  an  obnox-  • 
ious  manner  that  vice  seems  less  unpleasant  by 
comparison.  These  I  do  not  uphold.  But  I 
do  uphold  a  woman  who  dares  to  call  wicked- 
ness by  its  right  name,  and  shut  her  door  upon 
it,  however  charming  it  may  be ;  who,  like  Da- 
vid, "hates  all  evil-doers,"  and  will  not  let 
them  "  continue  in  her  sight."  Poor  King  Da- 
vid— a  sinner  too !  But  if  he  sinned,  he  also 
repented.  And,  had  he  repented,  I  doubt  not 
Lady  de  Bougainville  would  have  been  the  first 
to  hold  out  a  kindly  hand  even  to  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes. 

As  it  was,  she  made  no  pretense  of  the  sort. 
She  stood — her  hand  unextended,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  her  husband's  guest  with  a  grave  astonish- 
ment. So  unmistakable  was  her  manner,  so 
strong  her  determination,  that  Summerhayes 
made  no  attempt  to  counteract  either,  but  say- 
ing, "  I  perceive  I  am  intruding  here,"  bowed 
and  departed. 

His  friend  never  attempted  to  detain  him, 
but  burst  into  bitter  complaint  when  he  was 
gone. 

"Josephine,  how  can  you  be  so  unkind,  so 
rude  ?  You  have  driven  away  the  only  friend 
I  have — the  only  fellow  whose  company  is  amus- 
ing to  me,  or  whom  I  care  to  see  in  all  Paris." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  often  ?" 

"Why,  yes — no;  not  so  very  often.  And 
only  at  Galignani's.  I  never  brought  him  here 
before  to-night." 

"Then,  I  entreat  you,  do  not  bring  him 
again.  You  know  what  he  is,  and  what  I  think 
of  him.  Into  this  house,  and  among  my  young 
sons  and  daughters,  that  man  shall  never  come. 
Another  time,  when  I  happen  to  be  absent,  will 
you  remember  that,  Edward  ?" 

She  spoke  strongly — more  strongly,  perhaps. 


136 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


than  she  should  have  spoken  to  their  father  in 
her  children's  presence ;  but  it  was  necessary. 
Indecision  might  have  been  fatal.  They  were 
too  old  to  be  left  in  the  dark  as  to  their  asso- 
ciates. 

No  one  answered  her.  Cesar,  who  had  look- 
ed as  vexed  as  she,  took  up  a  book  and  walked 
away  to  bed  3  but  Adrienne  followed  her  mo- 
ther to  her  room,  greatly  agitated. 
•  "Indeed,  mamma,  I  had  no  idea  Mr.  Sum- 
merhayes  was  coming  till  he  came.  And  I  was 
so  pleased  to  see  him.  I  did  not  know  you  dis- 
liked him  so  much." 

That  was  true,  for  she  had  said  as  little  about 
him  as  possible  to  her  young  daughter ;  his  de- 
linqYiencies  were  of  a  kind  not  easy  to  open  up 
to  a  girl,  and  of  a  man  known  to  the  family  as 
their  father's  friend.  Even  now  she  hardly 
knew  how  to  explain  with  safety  the  motives  of 
her  conduct. 

"  I  do  dislike  him,  Adrienne,  and  I  have  just 
cause,  as  I  will  tell  you  by-and-by,  if  necessary. 
At  present  let  us  put  the  matter  aside.  Mr. 
Summerhayes  is  not  likely  to  come  here  again ; 
papa  says  he  shall  not  invite  him." 

But  she  knew  none  the  less  that  she  would 
have  to  take  all  imaginable  precautions  against 
the  thing  she  dreaded — against  the  father,  who 
was  no  sort  of  guard  over  his  own  children — 
who,  when  he  liked  or  wished  a  thing,  would 
stoop  to  any  underhand  means  of  accomplishing 
it.  For,  as  she  afterward  discovered,  her  husband 
had  all  along  kept  up  a  desultory  correspond- 
ence with  Mr.  Summerhayes,  whom,  though 
not  actually  supplying  with  money — Sir  Edward 
since  his  accession  to  wealth  having  grown  ex- 
tremely parsimonious — he  had  allowed  to  make 
use  of  him  in  various  ways  which  flattered  his 
vanity  and  his  love  of  patronizing ;  and  at  last 
in  one  way  which,  when  Josephine  found  it  out, 
she  opened  her  eyes  in  horrified  astonishment. 

"  He  marry  Adrienne  ?"  And  when  Sir  Ed- 
ward one  day  showed  her,  rather  hesitatingly, 
a  letter  making  formally  that  request,  she  tore 
it  up  in  a  fit  of  unrestrainable  passion.  "  How 
dare  he !     Of  course  you  refused  him  at  once  ?" 

"I^I  did  not  quite  like  to  do  that.  He  is 
acquainted  with  all  my  affairs.  Oh,  Josephine, 
pray — pray  be  careful." 

The  old  story!  The  strong,  wicked  man 
knowing  his  power  over  the  weak  one,  and  using 
it.  At  a  glance  Lady  de  Bougainville  saw  the 
whole  thing. 

"Coward!"  she  was  near  saying,  and  then 
her  sudden  blind  fury  died  down :  it  was  dan- 
gerous. She  needed  to  keep  her  eyes  open,  her 
mind  calm,  and  all  her  wits  about  her.  In  a 
new  and  utterly  unexpected  form  the  old  mis- 
ery had  risen  up  again.  Once  more  she  had  to 
protect  her  children,  not  only  from  Mr.  Sum- 
merhayes, but  from  their  own  father. 

"And  when  did  you  receive  this  letter,  Ed- 
ward ?"  she  asked,  not  passionately  now,  and 
he  was  blunt  to  any  thing  else. 

"  A  week  ago.  But  I  was  afraid  you  might 
not  approve :  Adrienne  is  so  young."  ' 


"  Adrienne  will  h^ve  money.  She  would  be 
a  very  convenient  wife  for  Mr.  Summerhayes." 

"And  Summerhayes  has  talent,  and  is  of 
good  family,  and  he  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  he 
tells  me,  long  ago.  He  might  suit  her  very 
well.  You  had  better  let  him  take  her.  It  is 
not  every  one  who  would  marry  poor  Adrienne. 
And  all  women  ought  to  be  married,  you  know." 

"Ought  they?" 

"Come,  come,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  rea- 
sonable. Who  shall  answer  the  letter,  you  or 
I?" 

"I  will." 

"  And  you'll  give  the  man  a  chance  ?  You'll 
not  make  an  enemy  of  him?" 

" Has  he  ever  spoken  to  the  child?  But  no 
— Adrienne  would  have  told. me — she  always 
tells  her  mother  every  thing."  And  the  com- 
fort which  always  came  with  the  thought  of  her 
children  soothed  the  mother's  half-maddened 
spirit.  "If  he  has  held  his  tongue,  I — I  will 
forgive  him.  But  he  must  never  see  my  daugh- 
ter's face  again." 

And  to  this  effect  she  wrote,  her  husband        * 
looking  over  her  shoulder  the  while.  ^ 

"Don't  offend  him,  please  don't  offend  him," 
was  all  Sir  Edward  said.  When  his  wife  look- 
ed as  she  looked  now,  he  was  so  utterly  cowed 
that  he  never  risked  any  open  opposition. 

Whether  to  tell  Adrienne  what  had  happen- 
ed, and  how  her  parents,  knowing  what  Mr. 
Summerhayes  was,  had  decided  for  her  at  once, 
and  so  put  her  on  her  guard  against  him,  or 
else  by  complete  silence  avoid  the  risk  of  awak- 
ening in  the  impressible  heart  of  seventeen  a 
tender  interest  for  a  possibly  ill-used  and  mere- 
ly unfortunate  man :  this  was  the  question 
which  the  mother  argued  within  herself  twenty 
times  a  day.  At  length  she  left  it  for  circum- 
stances to  decide,  and  simply  kept  watch — in- 
cessant watch. 

Mr.  Summerhayes  played  his  cards  well.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  come  to  the  house  again ;  he 
made  no  open  demonstrations  of  any  kind,  but 
he  followed  Adrienne  at  a  distance  with  that 
silent,  sedulous  worship  which  even  so  innocent 
a  creature  could  hardly  help  perceiving.  By 
using  the  name  and  influence  of  Sir  Edward, 
he  got  the  entree  into  several  houses  where  the 
De  Bo.ugainvilles  visited,  and  there,  though  he 
never  addressed  her,  he  watched  Adrienne 
ceaselessly,  with  his  melancholy,  poetical  eyes. 
True,  he  was  forty,  and  she  seventeen;  but 
these  ages  are  sometimes  mutually  attractive, 
and  as  a  child  she  had  been  very  fond  of  Mr. 
Summerhayes.  Often,  her  mother  recollected, 
he  had  taken  her  on  his  knee  and  called  her  his 
little  wife.  Many  a  true  word  is  spoken  in  jest. 
Now  that  the  years  had  dwindled  down  between 
them — leaving  him  still  attractive,  still  youth- 
ful-looking— for  people  with  neither  hearts  nor 
consciences  are  sometimes  very  slow  in  growing 
old — did  Adrienne  remember  all  this  ? 

She  was  so  quiet,  so  exceedingly  quiet,  that 
her  mother  had  no  means  of  guessing  at  her 
feelings.     Since  she  learned  that  he  was  dis- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


137 


liked,  Adrienne  had  never  uttered  Mr.  Sum- 
merhayes's  name.  When  they  met  him  in  so- 
ciety, they  passed  him  with  a  mere  bow  of 
recognition,  for  Lady  de  Bougainville  did  not 
wish  to  go  proclaiming  him  as  a  black  sheep  to 
every  body,  and  desired,  above  all,  to  avoid  every 
appearance  of  injustice  or  malice  toward  him : 
only  she  guarded  with  ceaseless  care  her  own 
lamb  from  every  advance  of  the  smiling  wolf. 
Who  gradually  conducted  himself  so  little  like 
a  wolf,  and  so  like  an  ordinary  man  of  society, 
that  her  fears  died  down,  and  she  began  to 
hope  that  after  all  they  had  been  exaggerated. 

Until  one  day,  when  the  climax  came. 

The  man  must  have  been  mad  or  blind  — 
blind  with  self-esteem,  or  maddened  by  the 
desperation  of  his  circumstances,  before  he  did 
such  a  thing  ;  but  one  Sunday  morning  he  sent 
to  Miss  de  Bougainville  a  bouquet  and  a  letter. 
Not  an  actual  offer  of  marriage,  but  something 
so  very  near  it,  that  the  simplest  maiden  of 
seventeen  could  be  under  no  mistake  as  to 
what  he  meant.  Only,  like  many  a  man  of  the 
world,  he  a  little  overshot  his  mark  by  calcu- 
lating too  much  upon  this  simplicity  ;  for  Adri- 
enne, trembling,  confused,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  did,  but  yet  impelled  by  her  tender 
conscience  and  her  habit  of  perfect  candor, 
came  at  once  and  put  the  letter  in  her  mother's 
hands. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  read  it  through  twice 
before  she  spoke.  It  was  a  clever  letter,  very 
clever;  one  of  those  which  Mr.  Summerhayes 
was  particularly  apt  at  writing.  It  put  forward 
his  devotion  in  the  most  humble,  the  most  dis- 
interested light ;  it  claimed  for  his  love  the 
paternal  sanction ;  and,  in  the  only  thing 
wherein  he  transgressed  the  bounds  of  decorum, 
namely  in  asking  her  to  meet  him  in  the  quiet 
galleries  of  the  Louvre,  that  Sunday  forenoon 
— he  put  himself  under  the  shelter  of  her  father, 
who  had  promised  him,  he  said,  to  bring  her 
there. 

Twice,  as  I  said,  in  wrath  that  was  utterly 
dumb,  Josephine  read  this  letter,  and  then, 
looking  up,  she  caught  sight  of  Adrienne's 
burning  face,  agitated  by  a  new  and  altogether 
incomprehensible  emotion. 

' '  My  child, "  she  cried ;  "oh,  my  poor  child ! " 

To  say  that  she  would  rather  have  seen 
Adrienne  in  her  grave  than  married  to  Mr. 
Summerhayes,  is  a  form  of  phrase  which  many 
foolish  parents  have  used  and  lived  to  repent 
of.  Lady  de  Bougainville  was  too  wise  to  use 
it  at  all,  or  to  neutralize  by  any  extravagance 
of  expression  a  truth  which  seemed  to  her 
clear  as  daylight — would  be  clear  even  to  the 
poor  child  herself,  if  only  it  were  put  before 
her. 

"Adrienne,"  she  said,  sorrowfully,  "I  am 
glad  you  showed  me  this  letter.  It  is,  as  you 
may  see,  equivalent  to  an  offer  of  marriage, 
which  you  will  refuse  like  the  rest,  I  hope. 
You  do  really  care  for  Mr.  Summerhayes  ?" 

Adrienne  hung  her  head.  "  I  have  known 
him  all  my  life ;  and — he  likes  me  so." 


"  But  he  is  a  bad  man ;  a  worse  man  than 
you  know  or  have  any  idea  of." 

"He  has  been;  but  he  tells  me,  you  see, 
that  I  should  make  him  better. " 

The  old  delusion !     Unfortunate  child ! 

Adrienne's  mother  had  now  no  alternative. 
Terrible  as  it  was  to  open  her  young  daughter's 
eyes,  the  thing  must  be  done.  Better  a  sharp 
pain  and  over;  better  any  present  anguish 
than  years  of  life-long  misery. 

For,  even  granting  there  was  one  grain  of 
truth  under  the  man's  false  words,  Josephine 
scouted  altogether  the  theory  of  doing  evil  that 
good  may  come.  In  the  goodness  of  a  man 
who  is  only  kept  good  by  means  of  a  gratified 
passion,  she  altogether  disbelieved.  Strong  as 
the  love  of  woman  is  to  guide  an  erring  man, 
to  settle  and  control  a  vacillating  one,  over  a 
thoroughly  vicious  one  it  has  almost  no  effect, 
or  an  effect  so  passing  that  the  light  flickers 
into  only  blacker  night.  And  here  —  could 
there  be  any  light  at  all  ? 

It  was  a  case — almost  the  only  one  possible 
— in  which  the  mother  has  a  right  to  stand  be- 
tween her  child  and  ruin :  to  prevent  her  mar- 
rying a  deliberate  villain. 

"  Come  to  me,  my  darling,"  said  she,  tender- 
ly ;  and  drawing  Adrienne  to  her  lap,  and 
sheltering  her  there  almost  as  in  the  days  when, 
long  after  babyhood,  she  would  come  and  "  cud- 
dle up"  to  her  mother  like  a  baby — Lady  de 
Bougainville  explained,  without  any  reserve, 
as  from  perfectly  reliable  sources  she  herself 
had  learned  it,  what  sort  of  life  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes had  led  :  dissolute,  unprincipled,  selfish, 
mean — only  saved  from  the  condign  punish- 
ment that  overtakes  smaller  scoundrels  by  the 
exceeding  charm  which  still  lingered  about  him, 
and  would  linger  to  the  last ;  a  handsome  per- 
son, a  brilliant  intellect,  and  a  frank  fascina- 
tion of  manner,  which  made  the  very  people  he 
was  swindling  and  cheating  ready  to  be  cheated 
over  again  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  his  society. 

Such  men  exist — we  all  have  known  them ; 
and  those  people  who  possess  no  very  keen  / 
moral  sense  often  keep  up  acquaintance  with 
them  for  years ;  in  an  easy  surface  way  which, 
they  say,  does  no  harm.  But  when  it  comes 
to  nearer  ties — marriage,  for  instance  ! — Mr. 
Summerhayes  had  once  a  mother,  who  was 
heard  to  say:  "If  Owen  ever  marries  a  wife, 
God  help  her!" 

"And,"  said  Lady  de  Bougainville  to  her- 
self, "God  and  her  mother  shall  save  my  poor 
child  from  ever  being  his  wife,  if  possible." 

Still  she  was  very  just.  She  allowed,  can- 
didly, that  only  till  Adrienne  was  twenty- 
one  did  her  authority  extend.  "After  that, 
my  daughter,  you  may  marry  any  one  you 
please — even  Mr.  Summerhayes.  But  until 
then  I  will  prevent  you,  even  as  I  would  pre- 
vent you  from  falling  into  the  fire  blindfold  if  I 
knew  it.  Do  you  understand  ?  Have  I  wound- 
ed you  very  sore,  my  darling  ?" 

Adrienne  made  no  reply.  She  lay  back 
with  her  head  on  Lady  de  Bougainville's  shoul- 


138 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


der,  her  face  hidden  from  her.  She  neither 
sobbed  nor  wept,  and  offered  not  a  single  re- 
monstrance or  denial.  At  last,  alarmed  by  her 
silence,  Josephine  lifted  up  the  poor  white  face. 
It  was  blank :  she  had  quietly  fainted. 

Lovers'  agonies  are  sharp,  and  parents'  cru- 
elties many ;  but  I  think  something  might  be 
said  on  the  other  side.  And,  as  any  thing  suf- 
fered for  another  is,  in  one  sense,  ten  times 
harder  than  any  thing  one  suffere  for  one's  self, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  keenest  of  lovers'  pain, 
the  hottest  of  lovers'  indignation,  could  hardly 
be  worse  than  the  mingled  grief  and  anger  of 
that  poor  mother,  as  she  clasped  her  broken 
lily  to  her  breast,  and  hated,  with  a  hatred  as 
passionate  as  it  was  righteous,  the  man  who 
had  brought  such  misery  upon  her  little  Adri- 
enne. 

As  for  Adrienne's  father —  But  it  was  use- 
less to  go  to  him,  to  ask  him  questions,  or  ex- 
act from  him  any  promises.  Nothing  he  said 
or  did  could  be  in  the  smallest  degree  relied 
upon.  She  must  take  the  matter  into  her  own 
hands,  and  without  delay. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  streets  were 
lying  in  that  temporary  quiescence,  when  re- 
ligious Paris  is  gone  to  High  Mass  and  irre- 
ligious Paris  idling  away  its  hours  in  early 
deshabille^  previous  to  blossoming  out  in  bour- 
geois splendor  and  gayety.  The  Louvre  would 
be,  as  Mr.  Summerhayes  had  probably  calcu- 
lated, nearly  empty ;  an  excellent  trysting-place 
for  lovers,  or  for  mortal  foes — for  her  enemy, 
from  first  to  last,  this  Owen  Summerhayes  had 
been.  That  he  hated  her  too,  Josephine  had 
little  doubt ;  for  she  knew  only  too  much  of  his 
career.  But  face  him  she  would  at  once,  be- 
fore he  could  do  her  any  more  harm. 

Leaving  Adrienne  in  Bridget's  charge  — 
Bridget,  who  was  only  too  quick  to  detect  how 
matters  stood,  and  might  be  trusted  without 
one  word  too  many — Lady  de  Bougainville,  at 
the  appointed  hour,  went  to  meet  her  daugh- 
ter's lover. 

Sir  Edward  was  not  with  him ;  but  Mr. 
Summerhayes  had  already  come,  and  was  pac- 
ing up  and  down  the  empty  salon,  inspecting 
the  pictures  more  with  the  cool  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur than  the  reckless  impatience  of  an  ex- 
pectant lover.  In  a  moment,  the  quick  woman- 
ly eye  detected  this  fact,  and  in  the  indignant 
womanly  heart  the  last  drop  of  pity  or  sympa- 
thy was  dried  up  for  Mr.  Summerhayes. 

At  sound  of  footsteps  he  turned  round,  with 
a  well-prepared  and  charming  smile,  and  per- 
ceived Lady  de  Bougainville.  It  could  not 
have  been  a  pleasant  meeting  to  him,  man  of 
the  world  as  he  was,  and  accustomed,  no  doubt, 
to  a  good  many  unpleasant  things  ;  but  ex- 
ternally it  was  civil  enough.  He  bowed,  she 
bowed,  and  then  they  stood  facing  one  an- 
other. 

They  were  nearly  of  an  age,  and  they  had 
personally  almost  equal  advantages.  Mentally, 
too ;  except  that  probably  the  man  had  more 
brain  than  the  woman,  Lady  de  Bougainville 


possessing  good  common-sense  and  general  re- 
tinement  rather  than  intellect.  In  courage 
they  were  both  on  a  par,  and  they  knew  it. 
The  long  warfare  that  had  been  waged  between 
them,  a  sort  of  permanent  fight  over  that  poor 
weak  soul,  who  was  scarcely  worth  fighting  for, 
had  taught  them  their  mutual  strength  and 
their  mutual  antipathy.  Now  the  final  contest 
was  at  hand. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Lady  de 
Bougainville ;  I  had  no  idea  of  meeting  you 
here." 

"No,  you  intended  to  meet  my  daixghter; 
but  instead,  I  thought  I  would  come  myself. 
There  is  nothing  you  can  have  to  say  to  her 
which  you  can  not  equally  well  say  to  her 
mother. " 

"Not  exactly,"  returned  Mr.  Summerhayes. 
"To  be  plain  with  you,  as  I  see  you  mean  to 
be  with  me,  my  dear  lady,  you  dislike  me,  and 
— I  hope  your  daughter  does  not." 

The  smile  on  his  lips  made  Josephine  furious. 
As  I  have  often  said,  she  was  not  naturally  a 
mild-tempered  woman.  It  often  cost  her  a 
great  effort  to  restrain  herself,  as  now. 

"May  I  ask,  Mr.  Summerhayes,  what  grounds 
you  have  for  supposing  that  Miss  de  Bougain- 
ville does  not  dislike  you,  or  has  the  smallest 
feeling  for  you  which  could  warrant  your  ad- 
dressing to  her  such  a  letter  as  you  sent  her 
this  morning  ?" 

"  You  intercepted  it,  then  ?" 

"No,  she  gave  it  to  me.  She  brought  it  to 
me  at  once,  as  she  will  bring  every  letter  you 
may  choose  to  send  her.  My  daughter  and  I 
have  always  been  on  terms  of  entire  confi- 
dence." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  A  most  happy  state  of 
things!" 

Nevertheless  Mr.  Summerhayes  looked  a  lit- 
tle disconcerted.  Apparently  his  experience 
of  women  had  been  of  a  different  nature,  and 
had  not  extended  to  these  bread-and-butter 
Misses,  whose  extraordinary  candor  and  trust 
in  their  mothers  produce  such  inconvenient  re- 
sults. But  he  was  not  easily  nonplused ;  and 
in  the  present  instance  his  necessities  were  des- 
perate, and  admitted  of  no  means  being  left 
untried  to  attain  his  end.  He  advanced  toward 
his  adversary  with  a  frank  and  pleasant  air. 

"Mrs.  Scanlon — I  beg  pardon.  Lady  de 
Bougainville,  but  we  can  not  readily  forget,  nor 
do  I  wish  to  forget,  old  times — you  do  not  like 
me,  I  know,  but  you  might  at  least  be  just  to 
me.  You  must  perceive  that  I  love  your 
daughter." 

"Love  !"  she  echoed,  contemptuously. 

"Well,  I  wish  to  marry  her — let  us  put  it 
so,  without  discussing  the  rest.  She  was  fond 
of  me  as  a  child,  and  I  dare  say  she  would  be 
now.  The  difference  of  age  between  us  is  not  so 
enormous.    By-the-by,  is  it  that  you  object  to  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  is  it?  My  family?  It  is  as 
good  as  her  own.  My  fortune  ?  That  is  small, 
certainly  ;  but  she  is  not  poor.     Myself  person- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


139 


LADY  DE  BOUGAINVILLB  AND  ADBIEiSfNE'S  I.OVEE. 


ally  ?  Well,  such  as  I  am  you  have  known  me 
these  fifteen  years,  and  whether  you  approve 
of  me  or  not,  your  husband  does.  Let  me  re- 
mind you,  Lady  de  Bougainville,  that  it  is  the 
father,  not  the  mother,  who  disposes  of  a  daugh- 
ter's hand." 

He  was  very  cunning,  this  clever  man ;  he 
knew  exactly  where  to  plant  his  arrows  and 
lay  his  pitfalls ;  but  for  once  a  straightforward 
woman  was  more  than  a  match  for  him. 

"  Adrienne  can  not  legally  marry  without  her 
father's  consent ;  but  morally  even  his  consent 
would  not  satisfy  her  without  mine.  And  mine 
I  never  will  give.     You  could  not  expect  it." 

"Why  not?  It  is  an  odd  thing  for  a  gen- 
tleman to  have  to  ask,  but  no  one  likes  to  be 
condemned  unheard.  May  I  inquire,  Lady  de 
Bougainville,  why  I  am  so  very  objectionable 
as  a  son-in-law  ?" 

His  daring  was  greater  than  she  had  antici- 
pated, but  somehow  it  only  roused  her  own. 
The  hackneyed  simile  of  the  lioness  about  to 
be  robbed  of  her  whelps  was  not  inappropriate 
to  Josephine's  state  of  mind  now.  Every  nerve 
was  quivering,  every  feature  tense  with  excite- 
ment.    Her  very  fingers  tingled  with  a  fran- 


tic desire  to  seize  the  man  by  the  throat  and 
shake  the  life  out  of  him. 

Despite  his  critical  position,  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes  must  have  found  her  sufiiciently  interest- 
ing as  an  artistic  study  to  note  down  and  re- 
member ;  for,  the  year  afterward,  he  exhibited 
in  the  Royal  Academy  a  "  Slaughter  of  the  In- 
nocents," in  which  the  face  of  the  half-mad 
mother  was  not  unlike  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

This  cold,  critical  eye  of  his  brought  her  to 
her  senses  at  once. 

"I  will  not  have  you  for  my  son-in-law," 
she  said,  in  a  slow,  measured  tone,  "  for  a  good 
many  reasons,  none  of  which  you  will  much 
like  to  hear.  But  you  shall  hear  them  if  you 
choose." 

"  Proceed  ;  I  am  listening." 

"  First,  you  do  not  love  my  child ;  it  is  her 
money  only  you  want.  She  is  plain  and  not 
clever,  not  attractive  in  any  way,  only  good ; 
how  could  a  man  like  you  be  supposed  to  love 
her?     It  is  a  thing  incredible." 

"Granted.  Then  take  the  other  supposi- 
tion, that  I  wish  to  marry  her  because  she  loves 
me." 

"If  she  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  do  so, 


uo 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


still  she  had  better  die  than  marry  you.  I 
say  this  deliberately,  knowing  Avhat  you  are, 
and  you  know  that  I  know  it  too." 

"I  am  neither  better  nor  worse  than  my 
neighbors,"  said  he,  carelessly.  "But  come, 
pray  inform  me  as  to  my  own  character.  It 
may  be  useful  information  in  case  I  should 
ever  have  the  honor  to  call  you  mother-in- 
law." 

Josephine  went  close  up  to  his  ear,  almost 
whispering  her  words ;  nevertheless,  she  said 
them  distinct  and  sharp  as  sword-cuts  —  the 
righteoes  sword  which  few  women,  and  fewer 
men,  ever  dare  to  use.  Perhaps  the  world 
would  be  better  and  purer  if  they  did  dare. 

"You  are  a  thief,  because  you  cheat  poor 
tradesmen  by  obtaining  luxuries  you  can  not 
pay  for ;  a  svi^indler,  because  you  borrow  mon- 
ey from  your  friends  on  false  pretenses,  and 
never  return  it;  a  liar,  because  you  twist  the 
truth  in  any  way  to  obtain  your  ends.  These 
are  social  offenses.  As  for  your  moral  ones" — 
Josephine  stopped,  and  blushed .  all  over  her 
matron  face  of  forty  years — but  still  she  vent 
on  unshrinking.  "Do  you  think  I  have  not 
heard  of  poor  Betsy  Dale  at  the  farm,  and  of 
Mrs.  Hewson,  your  landlord's  wife  ?  And  yet 
you  dare  to  enter  my  doors  and  ask  for  7/our 
wife  my  innocent  daughter !  Shame  upon  you 
— seducer — adulterer !" 

Bold  man  as  he  was,  Mr.  Summerhayes  did 
look  ashamed  for  a  minute  or  so,  but  quickly 
recovered  himself. 

"This  is  strong  language,  somewhat  unex- 
pected from  the  lips  of  a  lady ;  but  I  suppose 
necessary  to  be  endured.  In  such  a  position 
what  can  a  poor  man  do  ?  I  must  let  you  have 
your  own  way — as  I  noticed  in  old  times  you 
generally  had,  Lady  de  Bougainville.  Poor 
Sir  Edward!" 

The  sneer,  which  she  bore  in  silence,  did  not, 
however,  prove  sufficient  safety-valve  for  his 
suppressed  wrath,  which  was  certainly  not  un- 
natural. He  turned  upon  her  in  scarcely  con- 
cealed fierceness. 

"Still,  may  I  ask,  madam,  what  right  you 
have  thus  to  preach  to  me  ?  Are  you  yourself 
so  sublime  in  virtue,  so  superior  to  all  human 
weaknesses,  that  you  can  afford  to  condemn 
the  rest  of  the  world  ?" 

His  words  smote  Josephine  with  a  sudden 
humility,  for  she  felt  she  had  spoken  strongly 
— more  so,  perhaps,  than  a  woman  ought  to 
speak.  Besides,  she  had  grown  much  hum- 
bler in  many  ways  than  she  used  to  be. 

"God  knows,"  she  said,  "I  am  but  too  well 
aware  of  my  short-comings.  But  whatever  I 
may  be  does  not  affect  what  you  are.  Nor 
does  it  alter  the  abstract  right  and  wrong  of 
the  case,  and  no  pity  for  you — I  have  been  sor- 
ry for  you  sometimes — can  blind  my  eyes  to  it. 
I  must  '  preach,'  as  you  call  it ;  I  must  testify 
against  the  wickedness  of  men  like  you  so  long 
as  I  am  alive." 

"Then  you  will  be  a — a  rather  courageous 
personage.      In  fact,  a  lady  more  instructive 


than  agreeable.  But  let  us  come  to  the  point," 
added  he,  casting  off  the  faint  gloss  of  polite- 
ness in  which  he  had  veiled  his  manner,  and 
turning  upon  her  a  countenance  which  showed 
him  a  man  fierce,  unscrupulous,  dangerous — 
controlled  by  nothing  except  the  two  grand' re- 
straints of  self-interest  and  fear.  "Lady  de 
Bougainville,  you  know  me  and  I  know  you. 
I  also  know  your  husband — perhaps  a  little  too 
well ;  or  he  may  have  cause  to  think  so.  It 
is  convenient  for  me  to  become  his  son-in-law, 
and  to  him  to  have  me  as  such  ;  for,  in  the  ten- 
der relations  which  would  then  exist  between 
us,  I  should  hold  my  tongue.  Otherwise  I 
shall  not  feel  myself  bound  to  do  so.  There- 
fore, you  and  I,  I  think,  had  better  be  friends 
than  enemies." 

It  was  possibly  an  empty  threat — his  last 
weapon  in  a  losing  fight.  But  in  her  uncer- 
tainty of  the  extent  of  his  relations  with  her 
husband,  in  her  total  insecurity  as  to  facts, 
Josephine  felt  startled  for  a  moment.  Only  for 
a  moment.  If  ever  a  woman  lived  in  whom  no 
compromise  with  evil  was  possible,  it  was  Jo- 
sephine de  Bougainville.  Sir  Edward  used  to 
say,  in  old  jocular  days,  that  if  his  wife  were  to 
meet  the  devil  in  person  she  might  scorn  him, 
or  pity  him,  but  she  would  certainly  never  be 
afraid  of  him.  No  more  than  she  was  now 
afraid  of  Mr.  Summerhayes. 

"You  think  to  frighten  me,"  she  said,  stead- 
ily ;  "  but  that  is  quite  useless.  I  have  already 
suffered  as  much  as  I  can  suffer.  Do  as  you 
will — and  I  dare  you  to  do  it.  I  believe  that 
even  in  this  world  the  right  is  always  the  stron- 
gest. You  shall  not  marry  my  daughter !  She 
has  been  taught  to  love  the  right  and  hate  the 
wrong.  She  will  never  love  you.  If  you  urge 
her,  or  annoy  her  in  any  way,  I  will  set  the 
police  after  you." 

"Youdai-enot." 

"There  is  nothing  I  dare  not  do  if  it  is  to 
save  my  child." 

"  And  I  suppose,  to  save  your  child,  you  will 
go  blackening  me  all  over  the  world,  crying  out 
from  the  house-tops  what  a  villain  is  Owen  Sum- 
merhayes." 

"No,  that  is  not  my  affair.  I  do  not  attack 
you ;  I  only  resist  you.  If  I  saw  a  tiger  roam- 
ing about  the  forest,  I  should  not  interfere  with 
it ;  it  may  live  its  life,  as  tigers  do.  But  if  I 
saw  it  about  to  spring  upon  my  child,  or  any 
other  woman's  child,  I  would  take  my  pistol 
and  shoot  it  dead." 

"As  I  verily  believe  you  would  shoot  me," 
muttered  Owen  Summerhayes. 

He  looked  at  her — she  looked  at  him.  It 
was  in  truth  a  battle  hand  to  hand.  Whether 
any  relic  of  conscience  made  the  man  fearful, 
as  an  altogether  clean  conscience  made  the 
woman  brave,  I  can  not  tell ;  but  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes was  silent.  They  stood  just  under  one 
of  those  heavenly  Madonnas  of  some  old  mas- 
ter— I  know  not  which  ;  but  they  are  all  heav- 
enly. Is  it  not  always  a  bit  of  heaven  upon 
earth,  the  sight  of  a  mother  and  child  ?     Per- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


Ul 


haps,  vile  as  he  was,  Summerhayes  remem- 
bered his  mother;  or  some  first  love  whom  in 
his  pure,  early  days  he  might  have  made  the 
happy  mother  of  his  lawful  child  ;  possibly  the 
angel  which,  they  say,  never  quite  leaves  the 
wickedest  heart  stirred  in  his — for  he  said  re- 
spectfully, nay,  almost  humbly,  "Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville, what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?" 

She  never  hesitated  a  moment.  Pity  for 
him  was  ruin  to  the  rest. 

"I  wish  you  to  quit  Paris  immediately,  and 
never  attempt  to  see  my  daughter  more. " 

"  And  if  I  dissent  from  this — " 

Josephine  paused,  weighing  well  her  words — 
she  had  learned  to  be  very  prudent  now.  "  I 
make  no  threats,"  she  said ;  "  I  shall  not  speak, 
but  act.  My  daughter  is  not  yet  eighteen; 
until  twenty-one  she  is  in  my  power.  I  shall 
watch  her  night  and  day.  Any  letter  you  write 
I  shall  intercept ;  but  there  is  no  need  of  that, 
she  will  give  it  to  me  at  once.  If  you  attempt 
an  interview  with  her,  I  shall  give  you  into  the 
hands  of  the  police.  Besides  this,  no  moral 
persuasion,  no  maternal  influence,  that  I  am 
possessed  of,  shall  be  spared  to  show  you  to  her 
in  your  true  colors,  till  she  hates  you — no,  not 
you,  but  your  sins — as  I  do  now." 

"You  can  hate,  then?"  And  this  clever 
man  for  a  moment  seemed  to  forget  himself 
and  his  injuries  in  watching  her ;  just  as  a  cu- 
rious intellectual  study,  no  more. 

"  Yes,  I  can  hate ;  Christian  as  I  am,  or  am 
trying  to  be.     God  can  hate  too." 

He  laughed  out  loud.  "  I  do  not  believe  in 
a  God — do  you  ?  In  your  husband's  God,  for 
instance,  who,  as  Burns  neatly  informs  Him, 

"  'Sends  ane  to  heaven  and  ten  to  hell, 
A'  for  Thy  glory, 
And  no  for  onie  guid  or  ill, 

They've  done  afore  Thee.'" 

Josephine  answered  the  profanity  of  the  man 
by  dead  silence.  The  great  struggle  of  her  in- 
ward life  now,  the  effort  to  tear  from  Heaven's 
truth  its  swaddling-clothes  of  human  lies,  was 
too  sacred  to  be  laid  bare  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree before  Owen  Summerhayes. 

"  We  have  drifted  away  from  our  subject  of 
conversation,"  she  said,  at  last ;  "  indeed  it  has 
almost  come  to  an  end.  You  know  my  inten- 
tions— and  me." 

"I  believe  I  have  that  honor;  more  honor 
than  pleasure,"  he  answered,  with  a  satirical 
bow. 

"  You  ought  also  to  know,  though  I  name 
it  as  a  secondary  fact,  that  it  is  upon  me, 
and  me  alone,  that  my  children  are  depend- 
ent; that  I  have  power  to  make  a  will,  and 
leave,  or  not  leave,  as  I  choose,  every  half-pen- 
ny of  my  fortune. "  • 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Summerhayes,  a  little 
startled. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  smiled.  "  After  this, 
in  bidding  you  adieu,  I  have  not  the  slightest 
fear  but  that  our  farewell  will  be  a  permanent 
one." 

He  bowed  again,  rather  absently,  and  then 


his  eyes,  wandering  round  the  room,  lighted  on 
two  ladies  watching  him. 

"Excuse  me,  but  I  see  a  friend;  1  have  so 
many  friends  in  Paris.  Really  it  is  quite  Vem- 
harras  de  ricliesse.  May  I  take  my  leave  of 
you,  Lady  de  Bougainville  ?" 

Thus  they  parted ;  so  hastily  that  she  hardly 
believed  he  was  gone,  till  she  saw  him  walking 
round  the  next  salon  pointing  out  pictures  to 
the  two  French  ladies,  one  of  whom,  it  was 
evident,  admired  the  handsome  Englishman 
extremely.  Ja  I  question  not,  Mr.  Summer- 
hayes found  many  persons,  both  men  and  wo- 
men, to  admire  him  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him,  his  course  of  life,  or 
the  circumstances  of  his  latter  end.  Person- 
ally, he  crossed  no  more,  either  for  good  or  ill, 
the  path  of  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

When  she  had  parted  from  him,  she  turned 
to  walk  homeward  down  the  long  cool  gal- 
leries, now  gradually  filling  with  their  usual 
Sunday  stream  of  Parisian  bourgeoisie,  chatter- 
ing merrily  with  one  another,  or  occasionally 
stopping  to  stare  with  ignorant  but  well-pleased 
eyes  at  the  Murillos,  Titians,  RafFaelles,  wWch 
cover  these  Louvre  walls.  Josephine  let  it 
pass  her  by — the  cheerful  crowd,  taking  its  in- 
nocent pleasure,  "  though,"  as  some  one  said 
of  a  lark  singing — "though  it  was  Sunday." 
Then,  creeping  toward  the  darkest  and  quietest 
seat  she  could  find,  she  sank  there  utterly  ex- 
hausted. Her  strength  had  suddenly  collapsed, 
but  it  was  no  matter.  The  battle  was  done — 
and  won. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

As  I  have  said,  the  battle  was  ended :  but 
there  followed  the  usual  results  of  victor}'— of 
ever  so  great  a  victory — picking  up  the  wounded 
and  burying  the  slain. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  had  only  too  much  of 
this  melancholy  work  on  hand  for  some  days 
following  her  interview  with  Mr.  Summerhayes. 
A  few  hours  after  her  fainting-fit,  Adrienne 
rose  from  bed,  and  appeared  in  the  household 
circle  just  as  usual ;  but  for  weeks  her  white 
face  was  whiter,  and  her  manner  more  listless 
than  ever.  This  love-fancy,  begun  in  the  mer- 
est childhood,  had  taken  deeper  root  in  her 
heart  than  even  her  mother  was  aware ;  and 
the  tearing  of  it  up  tore  some  of  the  life  away 
with  it. 

She  never  blamed  any  one.  "  Mamma,  you 
were  quite  right,"  she  said,  the  only  time  the 
matter  was  referred  to,  and  then  she  implored 
it  might  never  be  spoken  of  again.  "Mam- 
ma, dearest !  I  could  not  have  married  such  a 
man ;  I  shall  not  even  love  him — not  for  very 
long.     Pray  be  quite  content  about  me." 

But  for  all  that,  poor  Adrienne  grew  weak 
and  languid ;  and  the  slender  hold  she  eA'er 
had  on  life  seemed  to  slacken  day  by  day. 
She  was  always  patient,  always  sweet ;  but  she 
took  very  little  interest  in  any  thing. 


142 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


For  Sir  Edward,  he  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten all  about  Mr.  Summerhayes,  and  the  whole 
affair  of  his  daughter's  projected  marriage.  He 
became  entirely  absorbed  in  his  own  feelings 
and  sensations,  imagining  himself  a  victim  to 
one  ailment  after  another,  till  his  Wife  never 
knew  whether  to  smile  or  to  feel  serious  anxi- 
ety. And  that  insidious  disease  which  he 
really  had— at  least  I  think  he  must  have  had, 
though  nobody  gave  it  a  name — was  beginning 
to  show  itself  in  lapses  of  memory  so  painful, 
and  so  evidently  involuntary,  that  no  one  ever 
laughed  at  them  now,  or  said,  with  sarcastic 
emphasis,  "  Papa  forgets."  Then,  too,  he  had 
fits  of  irritability  so  extreme,  mingled  with  cor- 
responding depression  and  remorse,  that  even 
his  wife  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  him. 
Nobody  else  ever  attempted  to  do  any  thing 
vnih  him.  He  was  thrown  entirely  upon  her 
charge,  and  clung  to  her  with  a  helpless  depend- 
ence, engrossing  her  whole  time  and  thoughts, 
and  being  jealous  of  her  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  any  other  than  himself,  even  her 
own  children.  By  this  time  they  had  quitted 
Paris,  which  he  insisted  upon  doing,  and  set- 
tled temporarily  in  London:  where,  between 
him  and  Adrienne,  who,  in  his  weakness  though 
not  in  his  selfishness,  so  pathetically  resembled 
her  father,  the  wife  and  mother  was  completely 
absorbed — made  into  a  perfect  slave. 

This  annoyed  extremely  her  son  Cesar,  whose 
bright  healthy  youth  had  little  pity  for  morbid 
fancies ;  and  who,  when  he  was  told  of  the 
Summerhayes  affair,  considered  his  mother  had 
done  quite  right,  and  was  furious  at  the  thought 
of  his  favorite  sister  wasting  one  sigh  over  "  that 
old  humbug."  "I'll  tell  you  what,  mother — 
find  Adrienne  something  to  do.  Depend  upon 
it,  nothing  keeps  people  straight  like  having 
plenty  to  do.  Let  us  buy  Brierley  Hall,  and 
then  we  will  set  to  work  and  pull  it  down  and 
build  it  up  again.  Fine  amusement  that  will 
be — grand  occupation  for  both  papa  and  Adri- 
enne/" 

Lady  de  Bougainville  laughed  at  her  son's 
rude  boyish  way  of  settling  matters,  but  allowed 
that  there  was  some  common-sense  in  the  plan 
he  suggested.  Only  it  annihilated,  perhaps  for- 
ever, her  own  dreams  about  Oldham  Court. 

"Oh,  never  mind  that,"  reasoned  the  light- 
hearted  young  fellow:  "you  shall  go  back 
again  some  day.  There  are  so  many  of  us, 
-some  will  be  sure  to  want  Oldham  Court  to 
live  at ;  or  you  can  have  it  yourself  as  a  dower- 
house.  It  is  securely  ours ;  we  can  not  get  rid 
of  it ;  Mr.  Langhorne  tells  me  it  is  entailed  on 
the  family.  Unless,  indeed,  you  should  hap- 
pen to  outlive  us  all,  your  six  children,  and — 
say  sixty  grandchildren,  when  you  can  sell  it 
if  you  choose,  and  do  what  you  like  with  the 
money." 

Laughing  at  such  a  ridiculous  possibility. 
Lady  de  Bougainville  patted  her  son's  head, 
told  him  he  was  a  great  goose,  but  nevertheless 
yielded  to  his  reasoning. 

In  this  scheme,  when  formally  consulted — of 


which  formality  he  was  now  more  tenacious 
than  ever — Sir  Edward  also  condescended  to 
agree;  and  Adrienne,  when  told  of  it,  broke 
into  a  faint,  smile  at  the  thought  of  changing 
this  dreary  hotel  life  for  a  real  country  home 
once  more — a  beautiful  old  house  with  a  park 
and  a  lake,  and  a  wood  full  of  primroses  and 
violets :  for  Adrienne  was  a  thorough  country 
girl,  who  would  never  be  made  into  a  town 
lady. 

So  Brierley  Hall  was  bought,  and  the  resto- 
rations begun,  greatly  to  the  interest  of  every 
body,  including  the  invalids,  who  brightened 
up  day  by  day.  A  furnished  house  was  taken 
in  Brierley  village,  and  thither  the  whole  fami- 
ly removed :  to  be  on  the  spot,  they  said,  so  as 
to  watch  the  progress  of  their  new  house,  the 
rebuilding  of  which,  Cesar  declared,  was  as  ex- 
citing as  the  re-establishment  of  an  empire. 
True,  this  had  not  been  done  on  the  grand 
scale  which  his  youthful  ambition  planned,  for 
his  wiser  mother  preferred  leaving  the  fine  old 
exterior  walls  intact,  and  only  remodeling  the 
interior  of  the  mansion.  But  still  it  was  an  en- 
tirely new  home,  and  in  a  new  neighborhood, 
where  not  a  soul  knew  any  thing  of  them,  nor 
did  they  know  a  single  soul. 

This  fact  had  its  advantages,  as  Josephine, 
half  plcasurably,  half  painfully,  recognized.  It 
was  a  relief  to  her  to  dwell  among  strangers, 
and  in  places  to  which  was  attached  not  one 
sad  memory — like  that  spot  which  some  old 
poet  sings  of,  where 

"No  sod  in  all  the  Island  green, 
Has  opened  for  a  grave." 

"  This  is  capital !"  Cesar  would  say,  when  he 
and  his  mother  took  their  confidential  stroll  un- 
der the  great  elm  avenue,  or  down  the  ivy  walk, 
after  having  spent  hours  in  watching  the  pro- 
ceedings of  masons  and  carpenters,  painters 
and  paper-hangers.  "I  think  rebuilding  a 
house  is  as  grand  as  founding  a  family — which 
I  mean  to  do." 

"  Re-found  it,  as  we  are  doing  here,"  cor- 
rected the  mother  with  a  smile,  for  her  son  was 
growing  out  of  her  own  conservative  principles ; 
he  belonged  to  the  new  generation,  and  delight- 
ed in  every  thing  modern  and  fresh.  They  oft- 
en had  sharp,  merry  battles  together,  in  which 
she  sometimes  succumbed ;  as  many  a  strong- 
minded  mother  will  do  to  an  eldest  and  favorite 
son,  and  rather  enjoy  her  defeat. 

Cesar  was  very  much  at  home  this  year,  both 
because  it  was  an  interregnum  between  his  col- 
lege life  and  his  choice  of  a  profession,  which 
still  hung  doubtful,  and  because  his  mother  was 
glad  to  have  him  about  her,  supplying  the  need 
tacitly  felt  of  "  a  man  in  the  house" — instead  of 
a  fidgety  and  vacillating  hypochondriac.  No 
one  gave  this  name  to  Sir  Edward,  but  all  his 
family  understood  the  facts  of  the  case,  and 
acted  upon  them.  It  was  impossible  to  do 
otherwise.  He  was  quite  incapable  of  govern- 
ing, and  therefore  was  silently  and  respectfully 
deposed. 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


143 


Nevertheless,  by  the  strong  influence  of  his 
ever-watchful  guardian,  his  wife,  the  sacred 
veil  of  sickness  was  gradually  dropped  over  all 
his  imperfections;  and  though  he  was  little 
consulted  or  allowed  to  be  troubled  with  any 
thing,  his  comfort  was  made  the  first  law  of  the 
household,  and  every  thing  done  for  the  amuse- 
ment and  gratification  of  "poor  papa."  With 
which  arrangement  papa  was  quite  satisfied ; 
and,  though  he  never  did  any  thing,  doubtless 
considered  himself  as  the  central  sun  of  the 
whole  establishment :  that  is,  if  he  ever  thought 
about  it  at  all,  or  about  any  thing  beyond  him- 
self. It  was  as  difficult  to  draw  the  line  where 
his  selfishness  ended  and  his  real  incapacity 
began,  as  it  is  in  some  men  to  decide  what  is 
madness  and  what  actual  badness.  Some  psy- 
chologists have  started  the  comfortable  but  rath- 
er dangerous  theory,  that  all  badness  must  be 
madness.  God  knows !  Meantime,  may  He 
keep  us  all,  or  one  day  make  us,  sane  and 
sound ! 

This  condition  of  the  nominal  head  of  the 
household  was  a  certain  drawback  when  the 
neighbors  began  to  call ;  and,  as  was  natural, 
ill  the  county  opened  its  arms  to  Sir  Edward 
md  Lady  de  Bougainville  and  their  charming 
family.  For  charming  they  were  at  once  pro- 
nounced to  be,  and  with  reason.  Though  lit- 
tle was  known  of  them  beyond  the  obvious 
facts  of  a  title,  a  fortune,  and  the  tales  whis- 
pered about  by  their  servants  of  how  they  had 
just  come  from  Paris,  where  they  had  mingled 
in  aristocratic  and  even  royal  circles,  still  this 
was  enough.  And  the  sight  of  them,  at  church, 
and  elsewhere,  confirmed  every  favorable  im- 
pression. They  were  soon  invited  out  in  all 
directions,  and  courted  to  an  extent  that  even 
Sir  Edward  might  have  been  content  with,  in 
the  neighborhood  which  they  had  selected  as 
their  future  home. 

But,  strange  to  say.  Sir  Edward's  thirst  for 
society  had  now  entirely  ceased.  He  consid- 
ered it  an  intolerable  bore  to  be  asked  out  to 
dinner;  and  when  he  did  go,  generally  sat  si- 
lent, or  made  himself  as  disagreeable  as  he  had 
once  been  agreeable  in  company.  The  simple 
liiw  of  good-manners — that  a  man  may  stay  at 
home  if  he  chooses,  but  if  he  does  go  out,  he 
ought  to  make  himself  as  pleasant  as  he  can — 
was  not  recognized  by  poor  Sir  Edward.  Nor 
would  he  have  guests  at  his  own  house ;  it  was 
too  troublesome,  he  said,  and  he  was  sure  no- 
body ever  came  to  see  him,  but  only  to  see  the 
young  people  and  their  mother.  He  was  not 
going  to  put  himself  out  in  order  to  entertain 
their  visitors.  So  it  came  to  pass,  that  in  this 
large  establishment  the  family  were  soon  afraid 
even  of  asking  an  accidental  friend  to  din- 
ner. 

But  over  these  and  other  vagaries  of  her 
master,  which  old  Bridget  used  to  tell  me  of, 
let  me  keep  silence — the  tender  silence  which 
Lady  de  Bougainville  scrupulously  kept  when- 
ever she  referred  to  this  period  of  her  life,  ex- 
ternally so  rich,  so  prosperous,  so  happy.    And, 


I  believe,  looked  back  upon  from  the  distance 
of  years,  she  herself  felt  it  to  have  been  so. 

I  think  the  same.  I  do  not  wish  her  to  be 
pitied  overmuch,  as  if  her  life  had  been  one 
long  tragedy ;  for  that  was  not  true ;  no  lives 
are.  They  are  generally  a  mixture  of  tragedy 
and  comedy,  ups  and  downs,  risings  and  fall- 
ings as  upon  sea-waves,  or  else  a  brief  space 
of  sailing  with  the  current  over  smooth  sun- 
shiny waters,  as  just  now  this  family  were  sail- 
ing. A  gay,  happy  young  family;  for  even 
Adrienne  began  to  lift  up  her  head  like  a  snow- 
drop after  frost,  and  go  now  and  then  to  a 
dance  or  an  archery  meeting ;  while  at  the 
same  time  she  was  steadily  constant  to  the 
occupations  she  liked  best — walking,  basket- 
laden,  to  the  cottages  about  Brierley,  wherever 
there  was  any  body  sick,  or  poor,  or  old ;  teach- 
ing in  the  Sunday-school ;  and  being  on  the 
friendliest  terms  with  every  child  in  the  parish. 
Some  of  these,  become  grown-up  fathers  and 
mothers,  had  cherished,  I  found,  such  a  tender 
recollection  of  her — her  mild,  pale  face,  and 
her  sweet  ways — that  there  are  now  in  Brierley 
several  little  girls  called  "Addy,"  or  "Ador- 
ine,"  which  was  their  parents'  corruption  of  the 
quaint  foreign  name  after  which  they  had  been 
christened,  the  name  of  Miss  de  Bougainville. 

Looking  at  her,  her  mother  gradually  be- 
came content.  There  are  worse  things  than 
an  unfortunate  love — a  miserable  marriage,  for 
instance.  And  with  plenty  of  money,  plenty 
of  time,  and  a  moderate  amount  of  health  (not 
much,  alas !  for  Adrienne's  winter  cough  always 
returned),  an  unmarried  woman  can  fill  up  many 
a  small  blank  in  others'  lives,  and,  when  she 
dies,  leave  a  wide  blank  for  that  hitherto  un- 
noticed life  of  her  own. 

They  must,  on  the  whole,  have  led  a  merry 
existence,  and  been  a  goodly  sight  to  see,  these 
young  De  Bougainvilles,  during  the  two  years 
that  Sir  Edward  was  restoring  Brierley  Hall. 
When  they  walked  into  church,  filling  th6 
musty  old  pew  with  a  perfect  gush  of  y6uth 
and  bloom,  hearty  boyhood  and  beautiful  girl- 
hood ;  or  when  in  a  battalion,  half  horse,  half 
foot,  they  attended  archerj'  parties,  and  cricket 
meetings,  and  picnics,  creating  quite  a  sensa- 
tion, and  reviving  all  thegayety  of  the  county — 
their  mother  must  have  been  exceedingly  proud 
of  them. 

"Only  three  of  us  at  a  time,  please,"  she 
would  answer,  in  amused  deprecation,  to  the 
heaps  of  invitations  which  came  for  dinners, 
and  dances,  and  what  not.  "We  shall  over- 
run you  like  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  we  are  so 
many. " 

"We  are  so  many!"  Ah!  poor  fond  mo- 
ther, planning  room  after  room  in  her  large 
house,  and  sometimes  fearing  that  Brierley  Hall 
itself  would  not  be  big  enough  to  contain  her 
children.  "So  many  I"  Well,  they  are  again 
the  same  number  now. 

By  the  time  the  Hall  was  finished,  the  De 
Bougainvilles  had  fairly  established  their  posi- 
tion as  one  of  the  most  attractive  and  popular 


144 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


femilies  in  the  neighborhood.  The  young  peo- 
ple were  pronounced  delightful ;  the  mother  in 
her  beautiful  middle-age  was  almost  as  young 
as  any  of  them,  always  ready  to  share  in  and 
advance  the  amusements  of  her  children,  and 
keep  them  from  feeling  their  father's  condition 
as  any  cloud  upon  themselves.  She  stood  a 
constant  and  safe  barrier  between  him  and 
them  ; — a  steady  wall ;  with  sunshine  on  the 
one  side  and  shade  oiji  the  other,  but  which  nev- 
er betrayed  the  mystery  of  either.  Many  a 
time,  after  a  sleepless  night  or  a  weary  day,  she 
would  quit  her  husband  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
come  down  among  her  children  with  the  bright- 
est face  possible,  ready  to  hear  of  all  their  pleas- 
ures, share  in  their  interests,  and  be  courteous 
and  cordial  to  their  new  friends ;  who,  young 
and  old,  were  loud  in  admiration  of  Lady  de 
Bougainville.  Also,  so  well  did  she  maintain 
his  dignity,  and  shield  his  peculiarities  by  wise 
excuses,  that  every  body  was  exceedingly  civil, 
and  even  sympathetic,  to  Sir  Edward.  He 
might  have  enjoyed  his  once  favorite  amuse- 
ment of  dining  out  every  day,  had  he  chosen ; 
but  he  seldom  did  choose,  and  shut  himself  up 
from  society  almost  entirely. 

At  length  the  long-deserted  mansion  was  an 
inhabited  house  once  more.  Light,  merry  feet 
ran  up  and  down  the  noble  staircase ;  voices, 
singing  and  calling,  were  heard  in  and  out  of 
the  Hall ;  and  every  evening  there  was  laugh- 
ter, and  chatter,  and  music  without  end  in  the 
tapestry  room,  which  the  young  De  Bougain- 
villes  preferred  to  any  other.  It  was  "  so  fun- 
ny," they  said  ;  and  when  a  house-warming  was 
proposed,  a  grand  ball,  to  requite  the  innumer- 
able hospitalities  the  family  had  received  since 
they  came  to  the  neighborhood,  Cesar,  and 
Louis  too — so  far  as  Louis  condescended  to  such 
mundane  things,  being  a  student  and  a  youth  of 
poetical  mind — insisted  that  the  dancing  should 
take  place  there. 

"  It  would  be  grand,"  said  they,  "  to  see  these 
ghostly  gentlemen  and  ladies^  looking  down 
upon  us  flesh  and  blood  creatures,  so  full  of 
fun,  and  enjoying  life  so  much.  Mamma,  you 
must  manage  it  for  us.  You  can  persuade  papa 
to  any  thing — persuade  him  to  let  us  have  a 
baU." 

She  promised,  but  doubtfully,  and  the  ques- 
tion long  hung  in  the  balance,  until  some  acci- 
dental caller  happened  to  suggest  to  Sir  Edward 
that  with  his  rank  and  fortune  he  ought  to  take 
the  lead  in  society,  and  give  entertainments  that 
would  outshine  the  whole  county.  So  one  day 
he.  turned  suddenly  round,  not  only  gave  his 
consent  to  the  ball,  but  desired  that  it  might  be 
given  in  the  greatest  splendor,  and  with  no 
'.^paring  of  expense,  so  that  the  house-warming 
at  Brierley  Hall  might  be  talked  of  for  years 
in  the  neighborhood.     It  was. 

"Now,  really,  papa  has  been  very  good  in 
this  matter,"  said  Cdsar,  rather  remorsefully,  to 
his  sister,  as  they  stood  watching  him  creep 
from  room  to  room,  leaning  on  his  wife's  arm, 
and  taking  a  momentary  pleasure  in  the  inspec- 


tion of  the  preparations  in  ball-room  and  supper- 
room.  The  young  folks  had  now  grown  so  used 
to  their  father's  self-engrossed  valetudinarian- 
ism that  they  took  little  notice  of  him,  except 
to  pay  him  all  respect  when  he  did  appear 
among  them,  and  get  out  of  his  way  as  soon  as 
they  could.  As  ever,  he  was  the  "wet  blank- 
et" upon  all  their  gayety — the  cloud  in  their 
sunshiny  young  lives.  But  now  he  could  not 
help  this ;  once  he  could. 

It  was  astonishing  how  little  these  young 
people  saw  of  their  father,  especially  after  he 
came  to  Brierley  Hall.  He  had  his  own  apart- 
ments, in  which  he  spent  most  of  his  time,  rare- 
ly joining  the  family  circle  except  at  meals. 
His  children's  company  he  never  sought ;  they 
knew  scarcely  any  thing  of  him  and  his  ways, 
and  their  mother  was  satisfied  that  it  should  be 
so.  The  secrets  of  the  life  to  which  she  had 
once  voluntarily  linked  her  own,  and  with  which 
she  had  traveled  on,  easily  or  hardly,  these  many 
years,  were  known  to  her,  and  her  alone.  Best 
so.  Though  she  was  constantly  with  him,  and 
her  whole  thought  seemed  to  be  to  minister  to 
his  comforts  and  contribute  to  his  amusement, 
it  was  curious  how  little  she  ever  talked  to  her 
children  about  their  father. 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  One  or  two 
persons  yet  living,  relics  of  the  families  then 
belonging  to  the  neighborhood,  have  told  me 
of  it,  and  how  splendid  it  was — finer  than  any 
entertainment  of  the  kind  ever  remembered 
about  Brierley.  Though  it  was  winter  time, 
and  the  snow  lay  thick  upon  the  ground,  peo- 
ple came  to  it  for  fifteen  miles  round  —  the 
grand  people  of  the  county.  As  for  the  poor 
people — Miss  de  Bougainville's  poor— they 
were  taken  by  herself  beforehand  to  see  the 
beautiful  sight,  the  supper-room  glittering  with 
ci-ystal  and  plate,  and  the  decorated  ball-room,  ^ 
which  was  really  the  tapestry  room,  both  on 
account  of  Cesar's  wish,  and  because  Sir  Ed- 
ward thought,  as  a  small  flight  of  stairs  alone 
divided  it  from  his  bedroom,  he  would  be  able 
to  go  in  and  out  and  watch  the  dancers,  retir- 
ing when  he  pleased.  He  had  declined  ap- 
pearing at  supper,  which  would  be  far  too  much 
trouble ;  but  he  was  gratified  by  the  handsome 
appearance  "of  every  thing,  and  in  so  bland  a 
mood  th^t  he  consented  to  his  wife's  desire  that 
there  should  be  next  day  a  second  dance  in  the 
servants'  hall,  where  their  humbler  neighbors 
might  enjoy  the  femnants  of  the  feast.  And 
as  she  arranged  all  this.  Lady  de  Bougainville 
felt  in  her  heart  that  it  was  good  to  be  rich — 
good  to  have  power  in  her  hands,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  make  her  children  and  her  friends  hap- 
py—  to  spread  for  them  a  merry,  hospitable 
feast,  and  yet  have  enough  left  to  fill  many  a 
basket  of  fragments  for  the  poor. 

"When  your  father  and  I  are  gone,"  she 
said  to  Cesar — after  telling  him  what  he  was  to 
do  as  the  young  host  of  the  evening — "  when  we 
have  slipped  away  and  you  reign  here  in  our 
stead,  don't  ever  forget  the  poor ;  we  were  poor 
ourselves  once." 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


U- 


No  one  would  have  thought  it  who  saw  her 
now,  moving  about  her  large  house,  and  gov- 
erning it  with  a  wise  liberality.  All  her  pet- 
ty, pathetic  economies  had  long  ceased ;  she 
dressed  well,  kept  her  house  well,  and  spared 
no  reasonable  luxury  to  either  herself  or  her 
children.  She  took  pleasure  in  this,  the  first 
large  hospitality  she  had  ever  exercised — al- 
most as  much  pleasure  as  her  children ;  until, 
just  at  the  last  moment,  a  cloud  was  cast  over 
their  mirth  by  Sir  Edward's  taking  offense  at 
some  trifle,  becoming  extremely  irritable,  and 
declaring  he  would  not  appear  at  night  at  all — 
they  might  manage  things  all  themselves,  and 
enjoy  themselves  without  him,  as  they  were  in 
the  habit  of  doing.  And  he  shut  himself,  and 
his  wife  too,  in  his  own  room,  whence  she  did 
not  emerge  till  quite  late  in  the  day. 

"It  is  very  vexing,  certainly,"  she  owned  to 
Cesar,  who  was  lying  in  wait  for  her  as  she 
came  out ;  *'  but  we  must  let  him  have  his  own 
way.     Poor  papa!". 

And  after  her  boy  left  her — for  he  was  too 
angry  to  say  much — Josephine  stood  for  a  min- 
ute at  the  window  of  the  ante-room  which  di- 
vided her  room  from  that  of  the  girls,  who  were 
all  dressing  and  laughing  together.  Once  or 
twice  she  sighed,  and  looked  out  wistfully  on 
the  clear  moonlight  shining  on  the  snow.  Was 
she  tired  of  this  world,  with  all  its  vanities  and 
vexations  of  spirit?  Or  was  her  soul,  which 
had  learned  much  of  late,  full  only  of  pity,  and 
a  certain  remorseful  sorrow  that  there  should 
be  nothing  else  but  pity  left,  for  the  man  who 
had  been  her  husband  all  these  years  ?  I  know 
not ;  I  can  not  sufficiently  put  myself  in  her 
place  to  comprehend  what  her  feelings  must 
have  been.  But  whatever  they  were  she  kept 
them  to  herself,  and  went  with  a  smiling  face 
into  her  daughters'  chambers. 

There  were  two,  one  for  the  younger  girls — 
a  quaint  apartment,  hung  with  Chinese  paper, 
covered  over  with  quaint  birds,  and  fishes,  and 
flowers ;  and  another,  the  cheerfulest  in  the 
house,  where  the  fire-light  shone  upon  crimson 
curtains  and  a  pretty  French  bed,  and  left  in 
shadow  the  grim  worn  face  of  John  the  Baptist 
over  the  fire-place ;  I  know  the  room.  Tliere 
Bridget  stood  brushing  the  lovely  curls  of  Miss 
Adrienne,  for  whom  her  mother  had  carefully 
chosen  a  ball-dress,  enveloping  her*  defective 
figure  in  clouds  of  white  gauze,  and  putting 
tender  blush  roses  —  real  sweet-scented  hot- 
house roses — in  her  bosom  aAd  her  hair ;  so  that 
for  once  poor  fragile  Adrienne  looked  absolute- 
ly pretty.  For  the  two  others,  Gabrielle  and 
Catherine,  they  looked  pretty  in  any  thing. 
If  I  remember  right  Bridget  told  me  they  wore 
this  night  white  muslin — the  loveliest  dress  for 
any  young  girl — with  red  camellias  in  their 
bosoms,  and  1  think  ivy  in  their  hair.  Some- 
thing real,  I  know  it  was,  for  their  mother  had 
a  dislike  to  artificial  flowers  as  ornaments. 

She  dressed,  first  her  daughters  and  then 
herself;  wearing  her  favorite  black  velvet,  and 
looking  the  handsomest  of  them  all.    She  walk- 


ed round  her  beautiful  rooms,  glittering  with 
wax-lights,  and  tried  to  put  on  a  cheerful  coun- 
tenance. 

"It  is  a  great  pity  of  course,  papa's  taking 
this  fancy;  but  we  must  frame  some  excuse 
for  him,  and  not  fret  about  it.  Let  us  make 
ourselves  and  every  body  abput  us  as  cheerful 
as  we  can." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Adrienne,  whose  slight- 
ly pensive  but  not  unhappy  face  showed  that, 
somehow  or  other,  she  too  had  already  learned 
that  lesson. 

"  Mamma,"  cried  Ce'sar  and  Louis  together, 
"you  are  a  wonderful  woman!" 

Whether  wonderful  or  not,  she  was  the  wo- 
man that  God  made  her  and  meant  her  to  be ; 
nor  had  she  wasted  the  gifts,  such  as  they  were. 
When,  in  years  long  after,  her  children's  fond 
tongues  being  silent,  others  ventured  to  praise 
her,  this  was  the  only  thing  to  which  Lady 
de  Bougainville  would  ever  own.  "  I  did  my 
best,"  she  would  answer — her  sweet,  dim  old 
eyes  growing  dreamy,  as  if  looking  back  calmly 
upon  that  long  tract  of  time — "  Yes,  I  believe 
I  did  my  best." 

Most  country  balls  are  much  alike ;  so  there 
is  no  need  minutely  to  describe  this  one.  Its 
most  ncfticeable  feature  was  the  hostess  and  her 
children,  who  were,  every  body  agreed — and 
the  circumstance  was  remembered  for  years — 
"quite  a  picture;"  so  seldom  was  it  that  a 
lady,  still  young-looking  enough  to  have  passed 
for  her  eldest  son's  sister  instead  of  his  mother, 
should  be  surrounded  by  so  goodly  a^  family, 
descending,  step  by  step,  to  the  youngest  child, 
with  apparently  not  a  single  break  or  loss. 

"  You  are  a  very  fortunate  and  a  very  happy 
woman,"  said  to  her  one  of  her  neighbors,  who 
had  lost  much — husband,  child,  and  worldly 
wealth. 

"Thank  God,  yes!"  answered  g%ntly  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

Every  body  of  course  regretted  Sir  Edward's 
absence  and  his  "  indisposition,"  which  was  the 
reason  assigned  for  it ;  though  perhaps  he  was 
not  so  grievously  missed  as  he  would  have 
liked  to  be.  But  every  body  seemed  wishful 
to  cheer  the  hostess  by  double  attentions,  and 
congratulations  on  the  admirable  way  in  which 
her  son  Cdsar  supplied  his  father's  place.  And, 
after  supper,  the  rector  of  Brierley,  who  was 
also  the  oldest  inhabitant  there,  made  a  pretty 
little  speech,  giving  the  health  of  their  absent 
host,  and  expressing  the  general  satisfaction  at 
Sir  Edward's  taking  up  his  residence  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  the  hope  that  the  De  Bou- 
gainvilles  of  Brierley  Hall  might  become  an 
important  family  in  the  county  for  many  gen- 
erations. 

After  supper  the  young  folks  began  dancing 
again,  and  the  old  folks  looked  on,  sitting 
round  the  room  or  standing  in  the  doorway. 
Lady  de  Bougainville  looked  on  too,  glancing 
sometimes  from  the  brilliantly  lighted  crowd 
of  moving  figures  to  that  other  crowd  of  figures 
on  the  tapestried  wall,  so  silent  and  shado\^y. 


146 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


How  lifelike  was  the  one — how  phantom-like 
the  other !  Who  would  ever  have  thought 
they  would  one  day  have  changed  places: 
those  all  vanished,  and  these  remained? 

It  was  toward  one  o'clock  in  the  morning 
that  a  thing  happened  which  made  this  ball 
an  event  never  forgotten  in  the  neighborhood 
while  the  generation  that  was  present  at  it  sur- 
vived. Not  only  Bridget,  but  several  extrane- 
ous spectators,  have  described  the  scene  to  me 
as  one  of  the  most  startling  and  painful  that  it 
was  possible  to  witness. 

The  gayety  was  at  its  climax  :  cheered  by 
their  good  supper,  the  dancers  were  dancing 
and  the  musicians  were  playing  their  very  best : 
all  but  a  few  guests,  courteously  waited  for  by 
Cesar  and  Adrienne,  had  returned  to  the  ball- 
room; and  Lady  de  Bougainville,  supplying 
her  elder  children's  place,  was  moving  brightly 
hither  and  thither,  smiling  pleasantly  on  the 
smiling  crowd. 

Suddenly  a  door  was  half  opened-rthe  door 
at  the  further  end  leading  by  a  short  staircase 
to  Lady  de  Bougainville's  bedchamber.  Some 
of  the  dancers  shut  it ;  but  in  a  minute  more  it 
was  again  stealthily  set  ajar,  and  a  face  peered 
out — a  weird  white  face,  with  long  black  hair 
hanging  from  under  a  white  tasseled  night-cap. 
It  was  followed  by  a  figure,  thin  and  spare, 
wrapped  in  a  white  flannel  dressing-gown. 
The  unstockinged  feet  were  thrust  into  slippers, 
and  a  cambric  handkerchief  strongly  perfumed 
was  flourished  in  the  sickly-looking  hands. 
Such  an  apparition,  half  sad,  half  ludicrous, 
was  never  before  seen  in  a  ball-room. 

At  first  it  was  only  perceived  by  those  near- 
est the  door,  and  they  did  not  recognize  it  until 
somebody  whispered  "Sir  Edward."  "He's 
drunk,  surely,"  was  the  next  suggestion ;  and 
one  or  two  gentlemen  spoke  to  him  and  tried 
to  lure  hin#'back  out  of  the  room. 

No,  he  was  not  drunk  ;  whatever  his  failings, 
intemperance  had  never  been  among  them.  It 
was  something  far  worse,  if  worse  be  possible. 
The  few  who  addressed  him,  and  met  in  return 
the  vacant  stare  of  that  wild  wandering  eye, 
saw  at  once  that  it  was  an  eye  out  of  which  the 
light  of  reason  had  departed,  either  temporari- 
ly or  forever. 

The  well-meant  efforts  to  get  him  out  of 
the  room  proved  fruitless.  He  broke  away 
with  a  look  of  terror  from  the  hands  which 
detained  him,  and  began  to  dart  in  and  out 
among  the  dancers  like  a  hunted  creature. 
Girls  screamed — the  quadrille  was  interrupted 
— the  music  stopped — and  in  the  sudden  lull 
of  silence,  Lady  de  Bougainville,  standing  talk- 
ing at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  heard  a 
shrill  voice  calling  her. 

"  Josephine  !  Josephine  !  Where  is  my 
wife  ?     Somebody  has  taken  away  my  wife  !" 

Whether  she  had  in  some  dim  way  forebod- 
ed a  similar  catastrophe,  and  so  when  it  came 
was  partially ,  prepared  for  it,  or  whether  the 
vital  necessity  of  the  moment  compelled  her 
into  almost  miraculous  self-control,  I  can  not 


tell ;  but  the  testimony  of  all  who  were  pres- 
ent at  that  dreadful  scene  declares  that  Lady 
de  Bougainville's  conduct  throughout  it  was 
something  wonderful:  even  when,  catching 
sight  of  her  through  the  throng,  the  poor  de- 
mented figure  rushed  up  to  her,  and,  as  if  fly- 
ing there  for  refuge,  clung  with  both  arms 
about  her  neck. 

"Josephine,  save  me!  These  people  are 
hunting  me  down ;  I  know  they  are.  Dear 
wife,  save  me!" 

She  soothed  him  with  quiet  words,  very 
quiet,  though  they  came  out  of  lips  blanched 
dead-white.  But  she  never  lost  her  self-com- 
mand for  a  moment.  Taking  no  notice  of  any 
body  else — and  indeed  the  guests  instinctively 
shrunk  back,  leaving  her  and  him  together — 
she  tried  to  draw  her  husband  out  of  the  room ; 
but  he  violently  resisted.  Not  until  she  said 
imperatively,  "Edward,  you  must  come!"  did 
he  allow  her  to  lead  him,  by  slow  degrees, 
through  the  ball-room,  to  the  door  by  which  he 
had  entered  it. 

It  was  a  piteous  sight  —  a  dreadful  sight. 
There  was  not  even  the  subhmity  of  madness 
about  it :  no  noble  mind  overthrown,  no 

"  Sweet  bells  jangled  oat  of  tune  and  harsh." 

Sir  Edward's  condition  was  that  of  mere  fatuity 
— a  weak  soul  sinking  gradually  into  premature  . 
senility.  And  the  way  in  which  his  wife,  so 
far  from  being  startled  and  paralyzed  by  it, 
seemed  quite  accustomed  to  his  state,  and  un- 
derstanding how  to  manage  it,  betrayed  a  se- 
cret more  terrible  still,  which  had  never  before 
been  suspected  by  her  guests  and  good  neigh- 
bors. They  all  looked  at  one  another,  and  then 
at  her,  with  eyes  of  half-frightened  compassion, 
but  not  one  of  them  attempted  to  interfere. 

She  stood  a  minute — she,  the  tall,  stately 
woman,  with  her  diamonds  flashing  and  her 
velvet  gown  trailing  behind  her,  and  that  for- 
lorn, tottering  figure  clinging  to  her  arm — and, 
casting  a  look  of  mute  appeal  to  those  nearest 
her,  whispered:  "Don't  alarm  my  children, 
please.  Take  no  notice — let  the  dancing  go  on 
as  before;"  and  was  slipping  out  of  sight  with 
her  husband,  when  Sir  Edward  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Wait  a  minutCy  my  dear,"  said  he.  A  new 
whim  seemed  to  strike  him  ;  he  threw  himself 
into  an  attitude,  wrapping  the  folds  of  his  dress- 
ing-gown about  him  something  like  a  clergy- 
man's gown,  and  flourishing  his  white  pocket- 
handkerchief  with  an  air  of  elegant  ease  quite 
ghastly  to  witness. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen — no,  I  mean  my 
dear  friends  and  brethren — you  see  my  wife,  a 
lady  I  am  exceedingly  proud  of;  she  comes  of 
very  high  family,  and  has  been  the  best  and 
kindest  wife  to  me."  The  sentence  was  begun 
ore  rotimdo,  in  a  strained,  oratorical,  pul])it 
tone,  gradually  dwindling  down  almost  to  a 
whine.  > 

"She  is  v6ry  kind  to  me  still,"  he  resumed, 
but  querulously  and  petulantly,  like  a  complain- 
ing child.     "Only  she  worries  me  sometimes  ; 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


147 


■WAITING  ON  THE  6TAIB. 


she  makes  me  eatmy  dinner  when  I  don't  want 
it;  and; would  you  believe  it?" — breaking  into 
a  silly  kind  of  laugh — "she  won't  let  me  catch 
flies !  Not  that  there  are  many  flies  left  to 
catch — it  is  winter  now.  I  saw  the  snow  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  I  am  so  cold.  Wrap  me 
up,  Josephine ;  I  am  so  very  cold  !" 

Shivering,  the  poor  creature  clung  to  her 
once  more,  continuing  his  grumblings,  which 
had  dropped  down  to  a  mere  mutter,  quite  un- 
intelligible to  those  around.  They  shrunk 
away  still  further,  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and 
pity,  while  his  wife  half  drew,  half  carried  him 
up  the  few  stairs  that  led  to  his  bedroom  door. 
It  closed  upon  the  two ;  and  from  that  hour  un- 
til the  day  when  they  were  invited  to  his  funer- 
al, none  of  his  neighbors,  nor  indeed  any  one 
out  of  his  own  immediate  family,  ever  saw  any 
more  of  poor  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville. 

And  they  heard  very  little  either.  The  Bri- 
erley  doctor,  whom  some  one  had  sent  for^  came 
immediately,  was  admitted  just  as  a  matter  of 
form,  reported  that  the  patient  was  asleep,  but 
really  seemed  to  know  little  or  nothing  about 
his  illness.  Nor  did  the  sick  man's  own  chil- 
dren, to  whom  every  body,  of  course,  spoke 


delicately  and  with  caution  during  the  brief  in- 
terval that  elapsed  before  the  ball  broke  up  and 
the  guests  dispersed.  They  were  very  kindly 
and  considerate  guests — would  have  done  any 
thing  in  the  world  for  their  hostess  and  her  fam- 
ily ;  but  the  case  seemed  one  in  which  nobody 
could  do  any  thing.  So,  after  a  while,  the  last 
carriage  rolled  away ;  Cesar,  left  sole  repre- 
sentative of  the  hospitality  of  the  family,  saw 
the  visitors  depart  with  due  attention  and  many 
apologies,  but  as  few  explanations  as  could  pos- 
sibly be  made.  He  was  his  mother's  OAvn  son 
already,  both  for  reticence  and  self-control. 

When  the  house  was  quiet,  he  insisted  upon 
all  the  servants  and  children  going  to  bed  ;  but 
he  and  Adrienne,  who  had  at  first  terribly 
broken  down,  and  afterward  recovered  herself, 
spent  the  remainder  of  the  night — the  chilly 
winter  night — sitting  on  the  little  stair  outside 
their  parents'  door. 

-  Once  or  twice  the  mother caitne^ont  to  them, 
and  insisted  on  their  retiring  to  rest. 

"  Papa  is  fast  asleep  still — he  may  sleep  till 
morning — he  often  does.  Indeed,  I  am  quite 
used  to  this,  it  never  alarms  me.  Don't  vex 
your  dear  hearts  about  me,  my  children,"  she 


148 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


added,  breaking  into  a  faint  smile  as  she  stoop- 
ed over  them  and  patted  their  hair.  "You 
are  too  young  for  sorrow.  It  will  come  in 
God's  own  time  to  you  all." 

So  said  she,  with  a  sigh ;  mourning  over  the 
possible  chance  of  her  children's  lives  being  as 
hard  as  her  own,  nor  knowing  how  vain  was 
the  lamentation.  Still,  her  feeling  on  this  point 
was  so  strong  and  immovable,  that,  say  what 
they  would,  nothing  could  induce  her  to  let 
either  son  or  daughter  share  her  forlorn  watch ; 
both  then  and  afterward  she  firmly  resisted  all 
attempts  of  the  kind.  I  fancy,  besides  the  rea- 
son she  gave,  there  were  others  equally  strong 
— a  pathetic  kind  of  shame  lest  other  eyes  than 
her  own  should  see  the  wreck  her  husband  had 
become,  and  a  wish  to  keep  up  to  the  last, 
above  all  before  her  children,  some  shadowy 
image  of  him  in  his  best  self,  by  which,  and 
not  by  the  reality,  he  might  be  remembered 
after  he  was  gone. 

The  end,  however,  was  by  no  means  at  hand, 
and  she  knew  it,  or  at  least  had  good  reason 
for  believing  so.  The  most  painful  thing  about 
Sir  Edward's  illness  was  that  the  weaker  his 
mind  became  the  stronger  his  body  seemed  to 
grow.  Mr.  Oldham's  state  had  been  pitiable 
enough,  Josephine  once  thought,  but  here  was 
the  reasoning  brain,  not  merely  imprisoned,  but 
slowly  decaying  within  its  bodily  habitation, 
the  mere  physical  qualities  long  outlasting — 
and  God  only  knew  how  many  years  they  might 
outlast — the  mental  ones  ;  for  Sir  Edward  was 
still  in  the  middle  of  life.  When  she  looked 
into  futurity  Josephine  shivered ;  and  horrible 
though  the  thought  was  to  enter  her  mind,  still 
it  did  enter,  when  he  suffered  very  much — that 
the  heart-disease  of  which  Dr.  Waters  had 
warned  her,  and  against  which  she  had  ever 
since  been  constantly  on  her  guard,  might  after 
all  be  less  a  terror  than  a  mercy. 

He  did  suffer  very  much  at  times,  poor  Sir 
Edward !  There  were  at  intervals  many  fluc- 
tuations, in  which  he  was  pathetically  con- 
scious of  his  own  state,  and  to  what  it  tended ; 
nay,  even,  in  a  dim  way,  of  the  burden  he  was, 
and  was  likely  to  become,  to  every  body.  And 
he  had  an  exceeding  fear  of  death  and  dying 
— a  terror  so  great  that  he  could  not  bear  the 
words  spoken  in  his  presence.  In  his  daily 
drives  with  his  wife — often  with  the  carriage- 
blinds  down,  for  he  could  not  endure  the  light, 
or  the  sight  of  chance  people — nothing  would 
induce  him  to  pass  Ditchley  church-yard. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  Josephine  would  say 
to  Bridget,  who  now,  as  ever,  either  knew  or 
guessed  more  than  any  one  her  mistress's 
cares.  *'  He  is  so  afraid  of  dying ;  when  I 
feel  so  tired! — so  tired! — when  I  would  so 
gladly  lay  me  down  to  rest,  if  it  were  not  for 
my  children.  I  must  try  to  live  a  little  lon- 
ger, if  only  for  my  children." 

But  yet,  Bridget  told  me,  she  saw  day  by 
day  Lady  de  Bougainville  slowly  altering  un- 
d^r  the  weight  of  her  anxieties,  growing  wasted, 
aifd  old,  and  pale,  with  constant  confinement 


to  the  one  room,  out  of  which  Sir  Edward 
would  scarcely  let  her  stir  by  night  or  by  day. 
Seldom  did  she  get  an  hour's  refreshing  talk 
with  her  children,  who  were  so  entirely  left  to 
themselves  in  that  large  empty  house,  where 
of  course  no  visitors  were  now  possible.  It 
would  have  been  a  dull  house  to  them,  with  all 
its  grandeur,  had  they  not  been,  by  all  ac- 
counts, such  remarkably  bright  young  people, 
inheriting  all  the  French  liveliness  and  Irish 
versatility,  based  upon  that  solid  ground-work 
of  Conscientiousness  which  their  mother  had 
implanted  in  them,  implanted  in  her  by  the 
centuries'  old  motto  of  her  race,  "Fais  ce  que 
tu  dois,  advienne  que  pourra." 

And  so  when  that  happened  which  she  must 
have  long  foreseen,  and  Sir  Edward  fell  into 
this  state,  sh.€  and  they  still  did  the  best  they 
could,  and  especially  for  one  another.  The 
children  kept  the  house  cheerful;  the  mother 
hid  her  heaviest  cares  within  the  boundary  of 
that  sad  room.  Oh,  if  rooms  could  tell  their 
history,  what  a  tale  to  be  told  there!  And 
when  she  did  cross  its  threshold,  it  was  with  a 
steadfast,  smiling  countenance,  ready  to  share 
in  any  relaxation  that  her  good  children  never 
failed  to  have  ready  for  her.  And  she  took 
care  that  all  their  studies  and  pursuits  should 
go  on  just  the  same,  at  home  and  at  college, 
except  that  Cesar,  who  had  no  special  call  else- 
where, remained  at  Brierley  Hall.  She  had 
said  to  him,  one  day,  "  I  can't  do  without  you  ,- 
don't  leave  me;"  and  her  son  had  ansAvered, 
with  his  prompt  decision,  so  like  her  own,  "  I 
never  will." 

But  as  the  summer  advanced,  and  she  felt 
how  dreary  the  young  people's  life  was  becom- 
ing, with  that  brave  motherly  heart  of  hers  she 
determined  to  send  some  of  them  away,  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  of  her  own  monotonous  and 
hopeless  days.  For  she  had  no  hope  ;  the  best 
physicians,  who  of  course  gave  their  best  con- 
sideration to  the  case  of  so  wealthy  a  Ynan,  and 
so  important  a  member  of  society  (alas,  the 
mockery!)  as  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville, 
could  give  her  none.  Cure  was  impossible ; 
but  the  slow  decay  might  go  on  for  many  years. 
Nothing  was  left  to  her  but  endurance ;  the  hard- 
est possible  lesson  to  Josephine  de  Bougain- 
ville. She  could  fight  with  fate,  even  yet ;  but 
to  stand  tamely  with  bound  hands  and  feet, 
waiting  for  the  advancing  tide,  like  the  poor 
condemned  witches  of  old — it  was  a  horrible 
trial.  Yet  this  was  her  lot,  and  she  must  bear 
it.  In  hers,  as  in  many  another  life,  she  needed 
to  be  taught  by  means  least  expected  or  de- 
sired; had  to  accept  the  blessings  which  she 
never  sought,  and  lose  those  which  she  most 
prayed  for;  yet  long  before  the  end  came,  she- 
could  say — I  have  often  heard  her  say — not  "I 
have  done  my  best,"  but  "He  has  done  His 
best  with  me,  and  I  know  it."  And  the  know- 
ing of  it  was  the  lesson  learned. 

But  just  now  it  was  very  hard ;  and  she  felt 
often,  as  she  owned  to  Bridget,  "tired — so 
tired!"  as  if  all  the  happiness  that  existence 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


149 


could  offer  would  not  be  equivalent  to  the  one 
blessing  of  mere  rest. 

I  have  said  little  about  Bridget  lately;  in- 
deed, these  latter  years  she  had  retired  into 
what  was  still  called  the  nursery,  as  a  sort  of 
amateur  young  ladies'  maid,  occupying  no  very 
prominent  position  in  the  family.  Her  plain 
looks  had  grown  plainer  with  age ;  Sir  Edward 
disliked  to  see  her  about  the  house,  and  nothing 
but  his  wife's  strong  will  and  his  own  weak  one 
could  have  retained  in  her  place  the  follower 
of  the  family.  In  the  sunshine  of  prosperity 
poor  Bridget  retired  into  the  shade,  but  when- 
ever a  cloud  came  over  the  family,  her  warm 
Irish  heart  leaped  up  to  comfort  them  all ;  her 
passionate  Irish  fidelity  kept  their  secrets  from 
every  eye ;  and  her  large  Irish  generosity  for- 
got any  little  neglect  of  the  past,  and  flung  it- 
self with  entire  self-devotion  into  the  present. 
(This  little  ebullition  must  be  pardoned.  I 
was  very  fond  of  Bridget,  who  stood  to  me  as 
the  type  of  all  that  is  noble  in  the  Irish  charac- 
ter, which  is  very  noble  sometimes  at  its  core.) 

During  this  sad  summer,  Bridget  rose  to  the 
emergencies  of  the  time.  She  lightened  her 
mistress's  hands  as  much  as  possible,  becoming 
a  sort  of  housekeeper,  and  doing  her  duties 
very  cleverly,  even  in  so  large  an  establishment 
as  Brierley  Hall.  For  there  was  no  one  else 
to  do  it;  Adrienijp  was  not  able;  it  was  as 
much  as  Bridget's  caution  could  do  to  conceal 
from  her  mistress  a  care  which  would  have 
added  heavily  to  all  her  other  burdens,  name- 
ly, that  things  were  not  quite  right  with  poor 
Miss  Adrienne.  Her  winter  cough  lingered 
still.  T^hat  gay  ball-dress  in  which  she  had 
looked  so  pretty,  proved  a  fatal  splendor ;  dur- 
ing the  long  chilly  night  when  she  and  Ce'sar 
had  sfvtr'at  their  mother's  room  door,  the  cold 
had  pierced  in  through  her  bare  neck  and  arms. 
She  scarcely  felt  it ;  her  mind  was  full  of  other 
things ;  and  when,  in  the  gray  dawn,  she  took 
out  of  her  bosom  the  dead  hot-house  roses  gath- 
ered by  her  mother  with  such  care,  she  little 
thought,  nor  did  any  one  think,  that  under- 
neath them  Death  himself  had  crept  in  and 
struck  her  to  the  heart. 

Not  a  creature  suspected  this.  That  strange 
blindness  which  sometimes  possesses  a  family 
which  for  many  years  has  known  neither  sick- 
ness nor  death,  hung  over  them  all — even  the 
mother.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  Adrienne's 
delicacy  of  health,  and  to  Bridget's  invariable 
cheery  comment  upon  it,  "It's  the  cracked 
pitcher  goes  longest  to  the  well,"  that  her  eyes 
detected  no  great  change  in  the  girl.  And 
Adrienne  herself  said  nothing;  sheAvas  sb  used 
to  feeling  "  a  little  ill,"  that  she  took  her  feeble- 
ness quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  only 
wished  to  make  it  as  little  of  a  trouble  as  pos- 
sible— above  all  to  her  mother,  who  had  so 
many  cares ;  and  she  urged  with  unselfish  earn- 
estness a  plan  Lady  de  Bougainville  arranged, 
and  at  last  brought  about,  that  the  three  boys 
should  go  with  an  Oxford  tutor  on  a  reading- 
party  to  Switzerland  for  two  months. 


Cesar  resisted  it  a  long  time.  "  I  will  not 
leave  you,  mother.     You  said  I  never  must. " 

"  I  know  that,  my  son,  and  I  want  you  very 
much,  but  I  shall  want  you  more  by-and-by. 
This  kind  of  life  may  last  for  forty  years — 
years !  I  can  bear  it  better  when  I  see  my 
children  happy.  Besides,"  added  she,  more 
lightly,  "  I  oould  not  trust  your  brothers  with- 
out you — you  grave  old  fellow  !  You  are  the 
strong-hold  of  the  house.  Nevertheless,  you 
must  do  as  your  mother  bids  you  a  little 
while  longei;.  Obey  her  now,  my  darling,  and 
go." 

So  Cdsar  went. 

The  morning  of  departure  was  sunshiny  and 
bright,  and  the  three  lads  were  bright  as  the 
day.  It  was  natural — they  were  so  gay,  and 
healthy,  and  young ;  their  sisters  too — to  whom 
they  promised  heaps  of  things  to  be  brought 
home  from  Switzerland.  Adrienne  was  the 
only  one  who  wept.  She,  clinging  to  Cesar, 
always  her  favorite  brother,  implored  him  to 
"  take  care  of  himself,"  and  be  sure  to  come 
home  at  the  two  months'  end. 

"  Ay,  that  I  will !  Nothing  in  the  world 
shall  stop  me  for  a  day,"  cried  he,  shaking  his 
long  curls — very  long  hair  was  the  fashion  then 
— and  looking  like  a  young  fellow  bound  to 
conquer  fafe,  and  claim  from  fortune  every 
thing  he  desired. 

* '  Very  well, "  said  his  mother,  gayly.  "  Come 
back  on  the  1st  of  October  and  youll  find  us 
all  standing  here,  just  as  you  leave  us.  Now 
be  off!     Good-by— good-by." 

She  forced  the  lads  away,  with  the  laugh  on 
her  lips  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  Yet  she 
was  not  sad — glad  rather,  to  have  driven  her 
children  safe  out  of  the  gloomy  atmosphere 
which  she  herself  had  to  dwell  in,  but  which 
could  not  fail  to  injure  them  more  or  less. 

"The  young  should  be  happy,"  she  said, 
half  sighing;  "and,  bless  them!  these  boys 
will  be  very  happy.  What  a  carriageful  of 
hope  it  is!" 

She  watched  it  drive  away,  amidst  a  grand 
farewell  waving  of  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  and 
then  turned  back  with  her  three  daughters  into 
the  shadows  of  the  quiet  house,  gulping  down 
a  wild  spasm  at  her  throat,  but  still  content — 
quite  content.  Women  that  are  mothers  will 
understand 'it  all. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

In  this  straightforward  telling  of  the  history 
of  my  dear  Lady  de  Bougainville,  I  pause,  al- 
most with  apprehension.  I  am  passing  out 
of  the  sunshiny  day,  or  the  checkered  lights 
and  glooms  which,  viewed  from  a  distance, 
seem  like  sunshine,  into  the  dark  night — as  she 
had  now  to  pass.  The  events  next  to  be  re- 
corded happened  so  suddenly,  and  in  such  rapid 
succession,  that  in  the  recording  of  them  they 
seem  a  mountain  of  grief  too  huge  for  fate  to 
heap  at  once  upon  one  individual.     Yet  is  it 


150 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


not  true  to  the  experience  of  daily  life  that  sor- 
rows mostly  come  "in  battalions  ?" 

Lady  de  Bougainville  had  had  many  per- 
plexities, many  trials,  many  sore  afflictions ; 
but  one  solemn  Angel  had  always  passed  by  her 
door  without  setting  his  foot  there,  or  taking 
any  treasures  thence,  except  indeed  her  little 
new-born  babies.  Now,  on  that  glorious  Au- 
gust dayj  he  stood  behind  her,  hiding  his  bright 
still  face  with  his  black  wings,  on  the  very 
threshold  of  Brierley  Hall. 

After  the  boys  had  departed,  Bridget  came 
to  her  mistress,  and  hastily,  with  fewer  words 
than  voluble  Bridget  was  wont  to  use,  asked  if 
she  might  go  up  to  London  with  the  young  la- 
dies and  their  governess  for  some  little  pleasur- 
ing that  had  been  planned. 

"  And  I'm  thinking,  my  lady,  if  afterward  I 
might  just  take  Miss  Adrienne  to  see  the  doc- 
tor" (a  physician  of  note  who  sometimes  attend- 
ed the  family).  "She's  growing  thin,  and  los- 
ing her  appetite  of  late :  fretting  a  little,  may- 
be, at  losing  her  brothers.  But  now  they're 
fairly  gone,  she'll  soon  get  over  it." 

"Of  course  she  will,"  said  the  mother,  smil- 
ing ;  for  Bridget  spoke  so  carelessly  that  even 
she  was  deceived.  Doubly  deceived  next  day 
by  her  daughter's  red  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes,  caused  by  the  excitement  of  this  brief 
two-hours'  journey. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  needed  any  doc- 
tor, my  child.  However,  you  may  go,  just  to 
satisfy  Bridget.  Mind  and  tell  me  all  he  says 
to  you." 

But  when  they  came  back  there  was  nothing 
to  tell;  at  least  Adrienne  reported  so:  "All 
the  doctor's  orders  were  given  to  Bridget  in  the 
next  room  ;  he  only  patted  me  on  the  shoulder, 
and  bade  me  go  home  and  get  strong  as  fast  as 
ever  I  could — which  I  mean  to  do,  mamma ; 
it  would  be  such  a  trouble  to  you  if  I  were  ill. 
There's  papa  calling  you !  run  back  to  him — 
quick — quick ! " 

It  happened  to  be  one  of  Sir  Edward's  bad 
days,  and  not  till  quite  late  at  night  had  his 
faithful  nurse — for  he  would  have  no  other — a 
chance  of  leaving  him  and  creeping  down  stairs 
for  a  little  rest  in  the  cedar  parlor.  There  she 
found  Bridget  waiting  for  her,  as  was  her  fre- 
quent habit,  with  a  cup  of  tea,  after  all  the  rest 
of  the  household  was  in  bed. 

"  Thank  you !"  Josephine  said,  and  no  more 
— for  she  had  no  need  to  keep  up  a  smiling  face 
before  her  faithful  old  servant — and  she  was  ut- 
terly worn  out  with  the  lojig  strain  of  the  day. 

Bridget  once  told  me  fhat  as  she  stood  be- 
side her  mistress  that  night,  and  watched  her 
take  that  cup  of  tea,  she  felt  as  if  it  were  a  cup 
of  poison  which  she  herself  had  poured  out  for 
her  drinking. 

"Now,"  continued  Lady  de  Bougainville,  a 
little  refreshed,  "tell  me,  for  I  have  just  ten 
minutes  to  spare,  what  the  doctor  said  about 
Miss  Adrienne.  Nothing  much,  it  seems,  ex- 
cept telling  her  to  go  home  and  get  strong. 
She  will  be  quite  strong  soon,  then?" 


The  question  was  put  as  if  it  scarcely  needed 
an  affirmative,  and  Bridget  long  remembered 
her  mistress's  look,  and  even  her  attitude,  sit- 
ting comfortably  at  ease  with  her  feet  on  the 
fender  and  her  gown  a  little  lifted,  displaying 
her  dainty  silk  stockings  and  black  velvet  shoes. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  asked  she,  sud- 
denly looking  up.  "There  is  nothing  really 
wrong  with  the  child  ?" 

"  There  is — a  little,"  said  Bridget,  cautious- 
ly.     "  I've  thought  so,  my  lady,  a  good  while,, ' 
only  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you.     But  the  doctor 
said  I  must.     He  is  coming  down  to-morrow 
to  speak  to  you  himself." 

"To  speak  to  me!" 

"  It's  her  lungs,  you  see ;  she  caught  cold  tn 
winter,  and  has  coughed  ever  since.  He  wants 
to  bring  a  second  doctor  down  to  examine  her 
chest,  and  I  thought  you  might  be  frightened, 
and  that  I  had  better — " 

Frightened  was  not  the  word.  In  the  mo- 
ther's face  was  not  terror,  but  a  sort  of  inst^- 
taneous  stony  despair,  as  if  she  accepted  all, 
and  was  surprised  at  nothing.  Then  it  sud- 
denly changed  into  fierce,  incredulous  resist- 
ance. 

"I  abhor  doctors.  I  will  not  have  these 
men  coming  down  here  and  meddling  with  my 
child :  she  should  never  have  gone  to  town. 
You  take  too  much  upon^ yourself,  Bridget, 
sometimes." 

Bridget  never  answered  ;  the  tears  were  roll- 
ing fast  down  her  cheeks,  and  the  sight  of  them 
seemed  to  alarm  Lady  de  Bougainville  more 
than  any  words. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
be  cross  with  you.  I  know  I  am  very  cross 
sometitnes,  but  I  have  much  to  bear.  Oh,  if 
any.  thing  were  to  go  wrong  with  my  child ! 
But  tell  me — tell  me  the  whole  truth;  it  is 
best." 

Bridget  knew  it  was  best,  for  the  doctor 
would  tell  it  all,  in  any  case,  to-morrow ;  and 
his  opinion,  as  expressed  to  herself,  had  been 
so  decided  as  to  leave  scarcely  a  loophole  of 
hope.  It  was  the  common  tale — a  neglected 
cold,  which,  seizing  upon  Adrienne's  feeble 
constitution,  had  ended  in  consumption  so 
rapid  that  no  remedies  were  possible :  indeed 
the  physician  suggested  none.  To  the  patient 
herself  he  had  betrayed  nothing,  of  course, 
sending  her  away  with  that  light  cheery  speech  ; 
but  to  the  nurse  he  had  given  distinctly  and  de- 
cisively the  fiat  of  doom.  Within  a  few  months, 
perhaps  even  a  few  weeks,  the  tender  young 
life  would  be  ended. 

The  whole  thing  was  so  sudden,  so  terrible, 
that  even  Bridget  herself,  who  had  had  some 
hours  to  grow  familiar  with  it,  scarcely  believed 
the  words  she  felt  herself  bound  to  speak.  No 
wonder,  therefore,  that  the  mother  was  utterly 
and  fiercely  incredulous. 

"It  is  not  true!  I  know  it  is  not  true!" 
she  said.  "Still  something  must  be  done.  I 
will  take  her  abroad  at  once — ah,  no !  I  can't 
do  that — but  you  will  take  her,  Bridget.     She 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


151 


shall  go  any  where — do  any  thing — thank  God 
we  are  so  rich  !" 

"  If  the  riches  could  save  her,  poor  darling  !" 
broke  in  Bridget,  with  a  sob.  *'I  never  told 
you  how  ill  she  was;  she  would  not  let  me; 
she  said  you  had  enough  to  bear.  But  when 
you  see  how  much  she  suffers  daily  and  may 
have  to  suffer,  the  doctor  says — oh,  my  lady ! — 
you  will  let  the  child  go." 

"I  will  not!"  was  the  fierce  cry.  "Any 
thing  but  this  ;  oh,  any  thing  but  this !" 

Josephine  had  known  many  sorrows — a^fpaost 
every  kind  of  sorrow  except  death.  True,  she 
had  mourned  for  her  lost  babies,  and  for  her 
father ;  though  his  decease,  happening  peace- 
fully at  a  ripe  old  age  and  soon  after  her  own 
marriage,  was  scarcely  felt  at  the  time  as  a 
real  loss.  But  that  supreme  anguish  which 
sooner  or  later  smites  us  all,  when  some  one 
well-beloved  goes  from  us,  never  to  return — 
leaving  behind  a  deep  heart-wound,  which 
closes  and  heals  over  in  time,  yet  with  a  scar 
in  its  place  forever — this  Josephine  had  never 
known  nor  understood  till  now. 

Nor  did  she  now — even  though,  after  the 
doctors  had  been  there,  the  truth  was  forced 
upon  her  from  the  lips  of  her  own  child. 

"Mamma,"  whispered  Adricnne,  one  day, 
when,  in  the  pauses  of  sharp  suffering  which  oft- 
en troubled  a  decay  that  otherwise  would  have 
been  as  beautiful  as  that  of  an  autumn  leaf,  she 
lay  watching  her  two  sisters  amusing  themselves 
in  her  room,  from  which  she  seldom  stirred 
now,  "Chere  maman,  I  think,  after  all,  Gabri- 
elle  will  make  the  best  Miss  de  Bougainville. 
Hush!"  laying  her  hand  on  her  mother's  lips, 
and  then  reaching  up  to  kiss  them,  they  had 
turned  so  white;  "I  know  all;  for  I  asked 
Bridget,  and  she  told  me.  And  I  am  not 
afraid.     You  may  see  I  am  not  afraid." 

She  was  not.  Either  from  her  long-con- 
firmed ill  health,  and  perhaps  her  early  disap- 
pointment, life  had  not  been  so,  precious  to  poor 
little  Adrienne  as  they  had  thought  it  was  ;  or 
else,  in  that  wonderful  way  in  which  dying 
people,  though  ever  so  young,  grow  reconciled 
to  dying,  death  had  ceased  to  have  any  terrors 
for  her.  Her  simple  soul  looked  forward  to 
"  heaven,"  and  the  new  existence  there,  with 
the  literal  fuith  and  confidence  of  a  child ;  and 
she  talked  of  her  own  departure,  of  where  she 
would  like  to  be  buried,  and  of  the  flowers  that 
were  to  be  planted  over  her — "that  I  may 
spring  up  again  as  daisies  and  primroses:  I 
was  so  fond  of  primroses" — with  a  composure 
that  sometimes  was  startling  to  hear. 

"You  see,  Bridget,"  she  would  say,  "after 
I  am  gone,  mamma  will  not  be  left  forlorn,  as 
if  I  were  her  only  one.  She  will  still  have  two 
daughters,  both  much  cleverer  and  prettier  than 
I,  and  her  three  sons — oh  such  sons ! — to  carry 
down  the  name  to  distant  generations.  I  can 
be  the  easiest  spared  of  us  all." 

And  in  her  utter  unselfishness,  which  had 
been  Adrienne's  characteristic  from  birth,  she 
would  not  have  her  brothers  sent  for,  or  even 


told  of  her  state,  lest  it  might  shorten  their  en- 
joyments abroad,  and  bring  them  sooner  back 
to  a  dreary  home. 

"  I  can  love  them  all  the  same,"  she  said ; 
"and  I  want  them  to  remember  me  with  love, 
and  not  in  any  painful  manner.  If  they  just 
come  in  time  for  me  to  say  good-by  to  them,  I 
should  like  that — it  will  do  quite  well. " 

Thus,  in  the  quietest  and  most  matter-of-fact 
way,  her  sole  thought  being  how  she  could  give 
least  trouble  to  any  body,  Adrienne  prepared 
for  her  solemn  change. 

Was  her  mother  also  prepared  ?  I  can  not 
tell.  Sometimes  Bridget  thought  she  seemed 
to  realize  it  perfectly,  and  was  driven  half  fran- 
tic by  the  difficulty  she  had  in  getting  away 
from  her  husband — who  remained  in  much  the 
same  state — to  her  poor  child,  with  whom  every 
moment  spent  was  so  precious.  Then  again, 
as  if  in  total  blindness  of  the  future,  she  would 
begin  planning,  as  usual,  her  girls'  winter  dress- 
.es — her  three  girls ;  or  arranging  with  eagerness, 
long  beforehand,  all  the  Christmas  festivities 
and  Christmas  charities  which  Adrienne  was  to 
give  to  her  poor  people,  who  came  in  dozens 
to  ask  after  Miss  de  Bougainville,  and  brought 
her  little  offerings  of  all  sorts  without  end. 

"  See  what  a  blessing  it  is  to  be  rich  !"  Lady 
de  Bougainville  would  say.  "When  I  was  at 
Ditchley  I  used  to  dread  Christmas,  because 
we  were  so  poor  we  could  do  nothing  for  any 
body :  now  we  can.    How  we  shall  enjoy  it  all ! " 

Adrienne  never  contradicted  her,  and  enter- 
ed into  her  arrangements  as  if  she  herself  were 
certain  to  share  them;  but  sometimes,  when 
Lady  de  Bougainville  had  quitted  the  room,  she 
would  look  after  her  with  a  sigh,  saying,  "Poor 
mamma !  poor  mamma !" 

Yet  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
Adrienne's  illness  was  altogether  a  miserable, 
time.  I  think  mere  sickness — nay,  mere  death 
— never  is,  unless  the  poor  sufferer  helps  to  / 
make  it  so.  By  degrees  the  whole  household 
caught  the  reflection  of  Adrienne's  wonderful 
peace  and  contentment  in  dying.  The  leaves 
that  she  watched  falling  and  the  flowers  fading 
— it  happened  to  be  a  remarkably  beautiful  au- 
tumn— did  not  fall  and  fade  in  a  more  sunshiny 
calm  than  she. 

"I  know  I  shall  never  *get  up  May  hill,'  as 
Bridget  expresses  it ;  but  I  may  have  a  few 
months  longer  among  you  all.  I  should  like 
it,  if  I  didn't  trouble  you  very  much." 

By  which  she  meant  her  own  sufferings, 
which  were  often  very  severe — more  so  than 
any  one  knew,  except  Bridget.  The  nurse  with 
her  child,  the  wife  with  her  husband,  through- 
out all  that  dreary  time,  shared  and  yet  con- 
cealed one  another's  cares  ;  and  managed  some- 
how to  keep  cheery,  more  or  less,  for  the  sake 
of  Gabriello  and  Catherine,  who  were  now  the 
only  bit  of  sunshine  left  in  Brierley  Hall.  It 
began  to  feel  chill  and  empty ;  and  every  one 
longed  for,  yet  dreaded,  the  boys'  return,  when 
one  day,  after  the  bright  autumn  had  turned 
almost  to  premature  winter,  Adrienne  drew  her 


152 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


mother's  face  down  to  hers,  over  which  had 
come  a  great  atid  sudden  change,  and  whisper- 
ed, "Write  to  my  brothers :  tell  them  to  come 
home." 

So  Lady  de  Bougainville  wrote  a  letter  in 
which  for  the  first  time  she  broke  to  her  sons 
something  of  the  truth,  and  why,  by  Adrienne's 
desire,  it  had  been  hitherto  concealed  from 
them. 

"Come  home  quick,"  she  wrote — (I  have 
myself  read  the  letter,  for  it  was  returned  to 
her,  and  found  years  after  among  her  other  pa- 
pers). "Come,  my  sons,  though  your  merry 
days  are  done,  and  you  are  coming  home  to 
sorrow.  You  have  never  known  it  before  ;  now 
you  must.  Your  mother  can  not  save  you  from 
it  any  longer.  Come  home,  for  I  want  you  to 
help  me.  My  heart  is  breaking.  I  sometimes 
feel  as  if  I  could  not  live  another  day,  but  for 
the  comfort  I  look  forward  to  in  my  three  dear 
boys." 

Thus  wrote  she,  thus  thought  she  at  the  time. 
Years  after,  how  strange  it  was  to  read  those 
words! 

The  letter  sent,  Adrienne  seemed  to  revive  a 
little.  It  was  the  middle  of  September.  "They 
will  be  home,  you'll  see,  on  the  1st  of  October ; 
Ce'sar  never  breaks  his  word.  He  will  not  find 
me  on  the  hall  door  steps  as  you  promised  him, 
mamma;  but  he  will  find  me,  I  feel  sure  of 
that ;  I  shall  just  see  them  all — and  then — " 
Then? 

That  night,  when  forced  to  quit  her  daugh- 
ter's cheerful  side  to  keep  watch  in  the  gloomy 
bedroom  which  Sir  Edward  had  insisted  upon 
furnishing  so  sumptuously,  v/ith  a  huge  cata- 
falque of  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  and  tall  mirrors  to 
reflect  his  figure,  the  miserable,  little  stooping 
figure ! — that  night,  and  in  that  chamber,  where 
the  blessedness  of  married  solitude  had  become 
a  misery  untold.  Lady  de  Bougainville,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  meditated  solemnly  upon 
the  other  world,  whither — in  how  many  days  or 
hours,  who  could  tell  ? — Adrienne  was  so  fear- 
lessly going. 

It  might  have  been  that  in  the  cloud  which 
had  fallen  upon  so  many  of  her  mortal  delights, 
the  blankness  that  she  found  in  her  worldly 
splendors,  Josephine's  mind  had  grown  gradu- 
ally prepared  for  what  was  coming  upon  her ; 
or  perhaps  on  that  special  day — she  had  reason 
to  remember  it — the  invisible  world  was  actual- 
ly nearer  to  her  than  she  knew ;  but  she  sat  by 
her  fire  long  after  her  husband  was  asleep — sat 
thinking  and  thinking,  until  there  seemed  to  be 
more  than  herself  in  the  room,  and  the  portraits 
of  her  children  on  the  walls  followed  her  wist- 
fully about,  as  the  eyes  of  portraits  do.  She 
grew  strangely  composed,  even  though  she  knew 
her  daughter  was  dying.  We  never  recognize 
how  we  have  been  taught  these  kind  of  things, 
nor  who  is  teaching  us,  but  to  those  who  believe 
in  a  spiritual  world  at  all,  there  come  many  in- 
fluences totally  unaccounted  for ;  we  may  have 
learned  our  lesson  unawares,  but  we  have  learn- 
ed it,  and  when  the  time  comes  we  are  ready. 


It  was  one  of  the  latter  days  of  September — 
I  think  the  29th — that  the  Times  newspaper 
communicated  to  all  England,  in  a  short  para- 
graph, one  of  those  small  tragedies  in  real  life 
which  sometimes  aff'ect  us  outsiders  more  than 
any  wholesale  catastrophe,  shipwreck,  earth- 
quake, or  the  like.  The  agony  is  so  condensed 
that  it  seems  greater,  and  comes  more  closely 
home  to  us.  We  begin  to  think  how  we  should 
feel  if  it  happened  to  ourselves,  and  how  those 
feel  to  whom  it  has  happened,  so  that  our 
heai^s  are  full  of  pity  and  sympathy. 

Thus,  on  that  29th  September,  many  a  worthy 
father  of  a  family,  enjoying  his  Tiynes  and  his 
breakfast  together,  stopped  to  exclaim  "How 
shocking!"  and  to  read  aloud  to  wife  or  chil- 
dren, mingled  with  sage  reflections  on  the  dan- 
gers of  Alpine  exploits  and  of  foreign  traveling 
in  general,  the  account  of  an  accident  which 
had  lately  befallen  some  Swiss  tourists,  in  cross- 
ing the  Lake  of  Uri  from  Bauen  to  Tell's  chap- 
el. They  had  put  up  a  small  sail  in  their  crowd- 
ed boat,  and  one  of  the  sudden  squalls  which, 
coming  down  from  the  mountains  all  round  it, 
render  this  one  of  the  most  perilous  of  the  Swis'S 
lakes,  had  caught  and  capsized  them.  Two  of 
their  number,  said  to  be  English — Oxford  men, 
named  Burgoyne — were  drowned. 

Lower  down,  inserted  as  "From  a  Corre- 
spondent," was  another  version  of  the  catas- 
trophe ;  explaining  that  the  number  in  the  boat 
was  only  five :  three  young  men ;  an  elderly 
gentleman,  their  tutor ;  and  the  boatman.  The 
latter  two  had  saved  themselves  by  swimming, 
and  were  picked  up  not  far  from  Bauen ;  but 
the  three  young  fellows,  brothers,  after  making 
inefiectual  attempts  to  help  one  another,  had 
all  gone  down.  They  were  sons  of  an  English 
gentleman  of  fortune,  this  account  said ;  and 
their  names  were  not  Burgoyne,  but  De  Bou- 
gainville. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  there  was  no  electric 
telegraph,  and  a  very  uncertain  foreign  post ; 
the  Times  couriers  often  outsped  it,  and  news 
appeared  there  before  any  private  intelligence 
was  possible.  Thus  it  happened  that  she  of 
whom  many  a  kind-hearted  English  matron 
thought  compassionately  that  morning,  won- 
dering if  those  three  poor  lads  had  a  mother, 
how  the  news  was  broken  to  her,  and  how  she 
bore  it — had  no  warning.of  the  dreadful  tidings 
at  all.  She  read  them — read  them  Avith  her 
own  eyes,  in  the  columns  of  the  Times  news- 
paper ! 

Sir  Edward's  sole  remaining  interest  in  the 
outside  world  was  his  daily  paper.  How  much 
of  it  his  enfeebled  mind  took  in  was  doubtful, 
but  he  liked  to  hear  it  read  to  him  in  his  wife's 
pleasant  monotonous  voice;  while  to  her  this 
was  rather  a  relief  than  not,  for  it  killed  two 
hours  of  the  long  dreary  day.  Besides,  she  got 
into  a  habit  of  reading  on  and  on,  without  com- 
prehending a  single  sentence ;  nay,  often  think- 
ing of  something  else  the  Avhole  time.  As  she 
did  this  morning ;  wondering  if  her  boys  had 
reached  Calais,  and  what  sort  of  a  crossing  they 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


153 


would  have,  for  the  wind  had  been  howling  all 
night  in  the  chimneys  of  Brierley  Hall.  Not 
that  she  was  afraid  of  the  sea,  or  indeed  of  any 
thing ;  none  of  those  sudden  misfortunes  which 
seem  the  portion  of  some  lives  had  ever  hap- 
pened in  hers.  Though  she  had  had  no  an- 
swer to  her  letter,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
be  uneasy  about  her  sons.  They  were  sure 
to  come  home  again,  and  in  good  health,  for, 
except  Adrienne,  all  her  children  inherited  her 
own  excellent  constitution.  That  very  morn- 
ing she  had  said  to  Bridget,  half  sadly,  "Oh 
yes.  I  am  quite  well — always  am  well.  I 
think  nothing  could  ever  kill  me." 

She  had  just  finished  the  leading  articles  and 
was  turning  to  the  police  reports — any  thing 
did  for  reading  —  when  this  fatal  paragraph 
caught  her  eye.  It  might  not  have  done  so, 
so  preoccupied  was  she,  but  for  the  word 
"Switzerland,"  which  reminded  her  of  her 
boys.  So  she  paused  to  glance  over  it,  just  to 
herself;  read  it  once — twice  —  thrice — before 
she  could  in  the  least  take  it  in.  When  she 
did,  her  strong  soul  and- body  alike  gave  way. 
She  threw  up  her  arms  with  a  wild  shriek,  and 
fell  flat  on  the  floor  like  a  stone. 

Admission  to  Sir  Edward's  room  was  rare. 
Sometimes  whole  days  passed  without  the 
younger  girls  being  sent  for  even  to  say  good- 
morning  or  good-night  to  papa — all  they  ever 
did ;  and  it  was  weeks  since  Adrienne  had  seen 
her  father.  He  made  no  inquiry  after  her; 
seemed  scarcely  aware  of  her  state,  except  to 
grudge  her  mother's  absence  in  her  room. 
Thus,  after  the  morning  visit  to  her  sick  child, 
it  was  so  usual  for  Lady  de  Bougainville  to 
spend  the  whole  forenoon  shut  up  with  her  hus- 
band, that  nobody  inquired  for  her,  or  thought 
of  inquiring,  until  Bridget,  noticing  that  among 
the  letters  which  came  in  by  the  post  was  a 
foreign  one,  and  not  in  any  of  the  boys'  hand- 
writing, thought  she  would  take  it  in  to  her 
mistress  herself,  and  so  bring  sooner  to  Miss 
Adrienne,  who  was  ver}'  feeble  that  day,  the 
news  of  her  brothers'  arrival,  and  the  hour. 

Bridget  knocked  several  times,  but  no  one 
answered.  Then,  terribly  alarmed,  she  pushed 
open  the  double  doors  of  green  baize,  which 
shut  off"  all  sounds  in  that  room  from  the  rest 
of  the  house,  and  ventured  in.  There,  the 
sight  she  saw  almost  confirmed  a  dreadful  pos- 
sibility which  she  had  never  dared  to  breathe 
to  mortal,  but  which  haunteU  poor  Bridget 
night  and  day. 

Sir  Edward  sat  with  his  wife's  head  upon  his 
knees ;  she  lying  as  if  she  were  dead,  and  he 
stroking,  with  a  miserable  sort  of  moan,  her 
hands  and  her  hair. 

"Come  here,  Bridget;  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  with  her !  I  haven't  hurt  her,  indeed  I 
have  not.  I  never  even  said  one  unkind  word. 
She  was  just  quietly  reading  the  newspaper, 
when  down  she  dropped  as  if  somebody  had 
shot  her.  Is  she  killed,  I  wonder?  Then  peo- 
ple will  be  sure  to  say  I  killed  her.  Take  her, 
Bridget,  for  I  must  run  and  hide." 


He  shifted  the  poor  head  from  his  own  lap 
to  Bridget's,  and  the  movement  brought  a  sigh 
of  returning  life  to  the  breast  of  the  unfortu- 
nate mother. 

Josephine  had  said  to  her  eldest  son  in  the 
letter  which  never  reached  him,  for  it  came 
back  to  her  unopened,  that  "her  heart  was 
breaking."  But  hers  was  not  one  of  the  hearts 
that  break. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  lifted  herself  up  on  her 
elbow,  and  stared  wildly  around. 

"Something  has  happened.  Is  it  Adri- 
enne?" And  then  she  caught  sight  of  the 
newspaper  on  the  floor.  "  Ah,  no!  It  is  my 
boys!"  she  shrieked.  "Bridget,  my  boys  are 
dead — drowned  in  the  lake ! — the  newspaper 
says  so." 

"Newspapers  don't  always  tell  the  truth," 
cried  Bridget,  and,  terrified  and  bewildered  as 
she  was,  bethought  herself  of  the  letter  in  her 
hand.  Together  the  two  women  managed  to 
break  it  open  and  read  it,  spelling  it  out  with 
horrible  exactness,  word  by  word. 

Alas,  no!  There  was  no  refutation,  nor 
even  modification  of  the  truth.  In  mercy, 
perhaps,  came  the  speedy  confirmation  of  ir, 
before  any  maddening  gleam  of  hope  could 
arise.  Her  three  sons  were  all  dead — drowned 
and  dead.  Before  this  letter  of  the  tutor's 
was  written,  the  "bodies"  —  ghastly  word! — 
had  been  recovered  from  the  lake,  identified, 
and  buried ;  half  the  population  of  Bauen,  and 
all  the  English  strangers  for  miles  round,  fol- 
lowing them  to  the  grave.  The  three  brothers 
slept  side  by  side  in  a  little  out-of-the-way 
Swiss  church-yard,  and  the  name  of  De  Bou- 
gainville was  ended. 

To  realize  the  blow  in  all  its  extent  was  im- 
possible. Josephine  did  not,  or  her  reason 
would  have  left  her.  As  it  was,  for  an  hour 
or  more  poor  Bridget  thought  sfhe  had  gone 
quite  insane.  She  did  not  faint  or  in  any  way 
lose  her  consciousness  again,  but  kept  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  rapidly  calling  upon 
her  sons  by  name  one  after  the  other,  then 
falling  on  her  knees  and  calling  upon  God. 

It  was  an  awful  agony ;  the  more  so  as,  ex- 
cept by  her  poor  servant,  who  watched  her 
terrified,  but  attempted  no  consolation,  it  was 
an  agony  necessarily  unshared.  Sir  Edward 
had  crept  away  into  a  corner,  muttering,  "Jo- 
sephine, be  quiet — pray  be  quiet;"  and  then 
relapsing  into  his  customary  childish  moan. 
At  first  she  took  no  notice  of  him  whatever ; 
then,  catching  sight  of  him,  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, or  perhaps  a  vague  hope  of  giving  or  get- 
ting consolation,  she  went  up  to  him,  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Edward,  dear  husband,"  she  cried,  in  a  wail- 
ing voice,  "  Edward,  our  sons  are  dead!  Do 
you  understand  ?  Dead— all  dead.  You  will 
never  see  one  of  them  any  more." 

lie  patted  her  cheek,  and  kissed  her  with 
his  vacant  smile.  "There  now,  I  knew  you'd 
soon  be  quiet.     And  don't  cry,  Josephine;  I 


154 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


can't  bear  to  see  you  cry.  Wliat  were  you 
saying  about  the  boys  ?  Dead  ?  Oh,  nonsense  I 
They  were  to  be  home  to-night.  Bridget,  just 
ring  the  bell  and  ask  one  of  the  servants  if  the 
young  gentlemen  are  come  home." 

Josephine  rose  up,  unlocked  her  arms  from 
her  husband's  neck,  and  stood  looking  at  him 
a  minute.  Then  she  turned  away,  and  walk- 
ing steadily  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  stood 
there  again,  for  ever  so  long — dumb  and  pas- 
sive as  a  rock — with  all  her  waves  of  misery 
breaking  over  her. 

"My  lady,"  said  Bridget,  at  length  ventur- 
ing to  touch  her. 
"Well?" 

"I  must  go.  I  dare  not  leave  Miss  Adri- 
enne  any  longer." 

"Adrienne,  did  you  say?"  And  the  mo- 
ther's heart  suddenly  turned — as  perhaps  Bridg- 
et had  meant  it  should  turn  —  from  her  dead 
sons  to  her  still  living  daughter. 

"  Miss  Adrienne  is  sinking  fast,  I  think." 
*'  Sinking !  That  means,  dying. " 
Lady  de  Bougainville  said  the  word  as  if  it 
had  been  quite  familiar,  long-expected,  pain- 
less. Hearing  it,  Bridget  wondered  if  her  mis- 
tress's mind  were  not  astray  again ;  but  she 
looked  "rational  like,"  and  even  smiled  as  she 
clasped  her  faithful  servant's  hand. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  Bridget ;  I  am  quite  my- 
self now.  And  I  have  been  thinking — Adri- 
enne was  so  fond  of  her  brothers.  I  don't 
know  where  they  are" — and  the  wild,  bewil- 
dered stare  came  into  her  eyes  again — "  but  I 
suppose,  wherever  they  are,  she  will  go  to  them ; 
and  soon,  very  soon.  "Why  need  we  tell  her 
of  their  death  at  all?" 

"My  lady,  you  could  not  bear  it,"  cried 
Bridget,  bursting  into  tears.  "  To  go  in  and 
out  of  her  room  all  day  and  all  to-morrow — for 
she  says  she  will  stay  till  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row— and  hear  her  talk  so  beautifully  about  you 
and  them,  you  could  not  bear  it." 

^'  I  think  I  could ;  if  it  were  easier  for  my 
child.     Let  us  try." 

Without  another  word  Josephine  went  and 
washed  her  face,  combed  out  her  long  gray 
hair,  which  had  fallen  down  disheveled  from 
under  her  cap,  arranged  her  collar  and  brooch, 
and  then  came  and  stood  before  Bridget  with 
a  steadfast,  almost  smiling  countenance. 

"Look  at  me  now.  Would  she  think  any 
thing  was  wrong  with  me  ?" 

"No,  no,"  sobbed  Bridget,  choking  down 
her  full  Irish  heart,  half  bursting  with  its  im- 
pulsive grief.  But  when  she  looked  at  her 
mistress  she  could  not  weep ;  she  felt  ashamed. 
Lady  de  Bougainville  took  her  old  servant's 
hand.  "You  can  trust  me,  and  I  can  trust 
you.  Go  in  first,  Bridget,  and  tell  my  child 
her  mother  is  coming." 

And,  a  few  minutes  after,  the  mother  came. 
All  that  long  day,  and  the  next,  she  went  about 
her  dying  child — moving  in  and  out  between 
Adrienne's  room  and  her  husband's — (for  Sir 
Edward  had  taken  to  his  bed,  declaring  he  was 


"very  ill,"  and  kept  sending  for  her  every  ten 
minutes)  but  never  by  word  or  look  did  she  be- 
tray the  calamity  which  had  fallen  upon  her, 
and  upon  the  household. 

Adrienne  said  often  during  that  time,  "  Mam- 
ma, I  am  such  a  trouble  to  you ! "  but  no  ;  her 
brief  young  life  remained  a  blessing  to  the  last. 
While  the  rest  of  the  house  was  shut  up,  and 
the  servants  went  about  noiselessly  with  fright- 
ened faces,  awed  by  the  sorrow  which  had  fall- 
en upon  the  family — within  Adrienne's  room 
all  was  peace.  While  every  other  room  was 
darkened,  there  her  mother  would  not  have  the 
blinds  drawn  down,  and  the  soft  yellow  sun- 
shine fell  cheerfully  across  the  bed,  where,  quiet 
as  a  baby  and  almost  as  pretty,  in  her  frilled 
night-gown  and  close  cap,  she  slept  that  ex- 
hausted sleep — the  forerunner  of  a  deeper  slum- 
ber, of  which  she  was  equally  unafraid. 

Nothing  seemed  to  trouble  her  now.  Once 
only  she  referred  to  her  brothers.  "Mamma, 
there  are  twenty-four  hours  still" — to  the  1st 
of  October  she  evidently  meant.  "  I  may  not 
stay  with  you  so  long. " 

"Never  mind,  my  darling." 

"No,  I  do  not  mind — not  much.  You  will 
give  my  love  to  the  boys;  and  tell  them  to 
be  good  to  you,  and  to  Gabrielle  and  Cathe- 
rine. They  will ;  they  were  always  such  good 
boys." 

"Always — always !" 

Here  Bridget  came  forward,  and  suggested 
that  the  mother  had  better  go  and  lie  down  for 
a  little. 

"No ;  let  her  go  to  bed  properly — she  looks 
so  tired.  Good-night,  mamma,"  and  Adrienne 
held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed.  "  You  will  come 
to  me  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes,  my  child." 

She  tottered  out,  and  between  her  daugh- 
ter's room  and  her  husband's  Josephine  dropped 
insensible  on  the  floor — where  Bridget  found 
her  some  minutes  afterward.  But  nobody  else 
knew. 

To  Adrienne  the  morning  and  the  mother's 
morning  kiss  never  came.  In  the  middle  of 
the  night  Bridget — who  lay  by  her  side  asleep, 
"sleeping  for  sorrow" — woke,  with  a  feeble 
touch  trying  to  rouse  her. 

"  I  feel  so  strange,  Bridget.  I  wonder  what 
it  is.  Is  it  dying  ?  No,  no"  (as  Bridget  start- 
ed up)  ;  "  don't  go  and  wake  mamma — at  least 
not  yet.     She  was  so  very  tired." 

The  mother  was  not  wakened ;  for  in  a  few 
minutes  more,  before  Bridget  dared  to  stir — 
with  her  head  on  her  nurse's  shoulder  and  her 
hand  holding  hers,  like  a  little  child,  Adrienne 
died. 

****** 

As  I  said  a  while  ago,  I  hardly  know  how  to 
make  credible  the  events  which  followed  so  rap- 
idly after  one  another,  making  Brierley  Hall 
within  six  months  an  empty,  desolate,  childless 
house.  And  yet  they  all  happened  quite  natu- 
rally, and  by  a  regular  chain  of  circumstances 
— such  as  sometimes  befalls,  in  the  most  strik- 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


issu- 


ing way,  a  family  from  which  death  has  been 
long  absent,  or  has  never  entered  at  all. 

At  the  time  of  Adrienne's  illness  there  was 
raging  in  Brierley  village  a  virulent  form  of 
scarlet -fever.  Lady  de  Bougainville  had  not 
heard  of  this ;  or  if  she  had,  her  own  afflictions 
made  her  not  heed  it.  When,  before  the  fu- 
neral, a  numbe!^  of  Miss  de  Bougainville's  poor 
children,  and  parents  too,  begged  permission  to 
look  once  more  at  her  sweet  face  as  it  lay  in 
the  coffin,  the  mother  consented,  and  even  gave 
orders  that  these,  her  child's  friends,  should  be 
taken  in  and  fed  and  comforted,  though  it  was 
a  house  of  mourning.  And  so  it  happened  that 
the  death  they  came  to  see  they  left  behind 
them.  The  fever,  just  fading  out  of  the  cot- 
tages, took  firm  hold  at  the  Hall.  First  a  serv- 
ant sickened,  a  girl  who  waited  on  the  young 
ladies ;  and  then  the  two  children  themselves. 
The  disease  was  of  the  most  malignant  and 
rapid  form.  Almost  before  their  mother  was 
aware  of  their  danger,  both  Gabrielle  and  Cath- 
erine had  followed  their  brothers  and  sister  to 
the  unknown  land.  They  died  within  a  few 
hours  of  one  another,  and  were  buried  on  the 
same  day. 

"  How  can  you  live  ?"  said  Dr.  Waters  and 
Mr.  Langhorne,  coming  back  from  the  funeral, 
where,  the  father  being  incapable,  they  had 
acted  as  chief  mourners.  "  How  will  you  ever 
live  ?"  And  the  two  old  men  wept  like  chil- 
dren. 

"I  must  live,"  answered  Josephine,  without 
the  shadow  of  a  tear  upon  her  impassive,  im- 
movable face;  "look  at  him!"  She  pointed 
to  her  husband,  who  slfeod  at  the  window,  ab- 
sorbed in  his  favorite  amusement  of  catching 
flies — the  last  solitary  fly  that  buzzed  about  the 
pane.    "  You  see,  I  must  live  on  a  little  longer." 

She  did  live ;  ay,  until,  as  I  once  heard  her 
say — and  the  words  have  followed,  and  will  fol- 
low me  all  my  life,  like  a  benediction — she  had 
been  made  to  "enjoy"  living. 

But  that  was  long,  long  afterward.  Now, 
for  many  months,  nay  years,  the  desolate  wo- 
man fell  into  that  stupefied  state  which  is  scarce- 
ly living  at  all.  I  will  not,  I  dare  not  describe 
it,  but  many  people  have  known  it — the  condi- 
tion when  every  thiilg  about  us  seems  a  painted 
show,  among  which  wc  move  like  automaton 
figures,  fulfilling  scrupulously  our  daily  duties, 
eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping ;  answering  when 
we  are  addressed,  perhaps  even  smiling  back 
when  we  are  smiled  upon,  but  no  more  really 
alive,  as  regards  the  warm,  breathing,  pleasure- 
giving,  pleasurable  world,  than  the  dead  forms 
we  have  lately  buried,  and  with  whom  half  our 
own  life  has  gone  down  into  the  tomb. 

It  was  so  —  it  could  not  but  be — with  the 
childless  mother,  left  alone  in  her  empty  house, 
or  worse  than  alone. 

How  much  Sir  Edward  felt  the  death  of  his 
children,  or  whether  he  missed  them  at  all,  it 
was  impossible  to  say.  OutAvardly,  their  loss 
seemed  to  affect  him  very  little,  except  that  he 
sometimes  exulted  in  having  his  wife's  contin- 


ual company,  and  getting  her  "  all  to  himself,'* 
as  he  said. 

He  was  very  fond  of  her,  no  doubt  of  that — 
fonder  than  ever,  it  appeared  ;  and  as  if  in  some 
sort  of  compensation,  he  became  much  less 
trouble  to  her,  and  far  easier  to  manage.  His 
fits  of  obstinacy  and  violence  ceased ;  in  any 
difficulty  she  had  unlimited  influence  over  him. 
His  inherent  sweet  temper  returned  in  the  shut- 
up  life  he  led ;  no  temptations  from  outside 
ever  assailed  him,  so  that  all  Josephine's  old 
anxieties  from  her  husband's  folly  or  impru- 
dence were  forever  at  an  end.  He  never  in- 
terfered with  her  in  the  smallest  degree ;  allowed 
her  to  manage  within  and  without  the  house 
exactly  as  she  chose ;  was  content  just  to  be  al- 
ways beside  her,  and  carry  on  from  day  to  day 
an  existence  as  harmless  as  that  of  a  child,  or 
what  they  call  in  Ireland  a  "  natural."  He  was 
never  really  mad,  I  believe,  so  as  to  require  re- 
straint— merely  silly;  and  the  constant  surveil- 
lance of  his  wife,  together  with  her  perfect  in- 
dependence of  him  in  business  matters,  prevent- 
ed the  necessity  of  even  this  fact  becoming  pub- 
lic. Upon  the  secrets  of  his  melancholy  illness 
no  outside  eye  ever  gazed,  and  no  ear  heard 
them  afterward. 

The  forlorn  pair  still  lived  on  at  Brierleyt 
Hall.  Sir  Edward  could  not,  and,  fortunately, 
would  not,  be  removed  from  thence :  nor  did 
Lady  de  Bougainville  desire  it.  If  she  had 
any  feeling  at  all  in  her  frozen  heart,  it  was  the 
craving  to  see,  morning  after  morning,  when 
she  rose  to  begin  the  dreary  day,  the  sun  shin- 
ing on  the  tall  spire  of  Brierley  Church, *under 
the  shadow  of  which  her  three  daughters  lay : 
her  three  sons,  likewise,  in  time ;  for  after  some 
years  she  had  them  brought  home  from  Switz- 
erland, and  laid  there  too,  to  sleep  all  together 
under  the  honey -scented,  bee -haunted  lime- 
trees  which  we  are  so  proud  of  in  our  Brierley 
church-yard. 

In  the  early  days  of  her  desolation  she  had 
parted  with  Oldham  Court,  according  to  the 
conditions — which  she  and  her  son  Cesar*  had 
once  laughed  at  as  ridiculously  impossible— K»f 
Mr.  Oldham's  will.  She  sold  the  estate,  but 
not  to  a  stranger ;  for  another  impossibility,  as 
was  thought,  also  happened.  Lady  Emma,  so 
tenderly  cherished,  lingered  several  years,  and 
before  she  died  left  a  son — a  living  son — for 
whom  his  father  bought  the  ancestral  property, 
and  who,  taking  his  mother's  maiden  name,  be- 
came in  time  Mr.  Oldham  of  Oldham  Court. 
When  Lady  de  Bougainville  heard  of  this,  she 
smiled,  saying,  "  It  is  well ;"  but  she  never  saw 
the  place  again,  nor  expressed  the  slightest  de- 
sire to  do  so.  Indeed,  fiom  that  time  forward 
she  never  was  ten  miles  distant  from,  nor  slept 
a  single  night  out  of,  Brierley  Hall. 

She  and  Sir  Edward  lived  there  in  total  se- 
clusion. No  guests  ever  crossed  the  threshold 
of  their  beautiful  house;  their  wide  gardens 
and  pleasure-grounds  they  had  all  to  themselves. 
In  summer  time  they  lived  very  much  out  of 
doors ;  it  amused  Sir  Edward  ;  and  there  were 


156 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


SHE   USED  SOMETIMES  TO  HEAB  HEE  CHILDREN'S  VOICES  ABOUT  THE  EMPTY  HOUSE. 


neither  children  nor  children's  friends  to  hide 
his  infirmities  from,  so  that  his  wife  let  him 
wandei*  wherever  he  chose.  He  followed  her 
about  like  a  dog,  and  if  left  a  minute  wailed 
after  her  like  a  deserted  infant.  His  entire  and 
childlike  dependence  upon  her  was  perhaps  a 
balm  to  the  empty  mother  -  heart.  Bridget 
sometimes  thought  so. 

It  was  needed.  Otherwise,  in  the  blank  mo- 
notony of  her  days,  with  nothing  to  dread,  no- 
thing to  hope  for,  nothing  to  do,  in  the  forced 
self-containedness  of  her  stony  grief,  and  in  the 
constant  companionship  of  that  half -insane 
mind,  Josephine's  own  might  have  tottered 
from  its  balance.  She  used  sometimes  to  have 
the  strangest  fancies— to  hear  her  children's 
voices  about  the  empty  house,  to  see  them  mov- 
ing in  her  room  at  night.  And  she  would  sit 
for  hours,  motionless  as  a  statue,  with  her  now 
constantly  idle  hands  crossed  on  her  lap  ;  living 
over  and  over  again  the  old  life  at  Wren's  Nest, 
with  the  impression  that  presently  she  should 
go  back  to  it  again,  and  find  the  narrow,  noisy, 
poverty-haunted  cottage  just  as  before,  with  no- 
thing and  no  one  changed.  At  such  times,  if 
Bridget,  who  kept  as  close  to  her  as  Sir  Ed- 
ward's presence  rendered  possible,  and  kept  ev- 
ery one  else  sedulously  away,  suddenly  disturb- 
ed her  dream,  Lady  de  Bougainville  would 
wonder  which  was  the  dream  and  which  the 
reality;  whether  she  were  alive  and  her  chil- 
dren gone,  or  they  living  and  she  dead. 

To  rouse  her,  there  came  after  a  while  some 
salutary  suffering.     In  the  slow  progress  of  his 


disease.  Sir  Edward's  failing  mind  took  a  new 
turn.  That  extreme  terror  of  death  which  he 
had  always  had  became  his  rooted  and  domi- 
nant idea.  He  magnified  every  little  ache  and 
pain,  and  whenever  he  was  really  ill  fell  into  a 
condition  of  frantic  fear.  All  religious  conso- 
lations failed  him.  That  peculiar  form  of  doc- 
trine which  he  professed — or  rather,  that  cor- 
ruption of  it,  such  as  is  received  by  narrow  and 
weak  natures — did  not  support  him  in  the  least. 
He  grew  uncertain  of  what  he  was  once  so  com- 
placently sure  of— his  being  one  of  the  "  elect ;" 
and,  in  any  case,  the  thought  of  approaching 
mortality,  of  being  dragged  away  from  the  com- 
fortable world  he  knew  into  one  he  did  not 
know,  and,  despite  his  own  poetical  pictures  of 
glory  hereafter,  he  did  not  seem  too  sure  of, 
filled  him  with  a  morbid  terror  that  was  the 
most  painful  phase  of  his  illness.  He  fancied 
himself  doomed  to  eternal  perdition ;  and  the 
well-arranged  "scheme  of  salvation,"  which  he 
used  to  discuss  so  glibly,  as  if  it  were  a  mere 
mathematical  problem,  and  he  knew  it  all, 
faded  out  from  his  confused  brain,  leaving  only 
a  fearful  image  of  the  Father  as  such  preach- 
ers describe  Him — an  angry  God,''more  terri- 
ble than  any  likeness  of  revengeful  man,  pur- 
suing all  His  creatures  who  will  not,  or  can  not, 
accept  His  mercy,  into  the  lowest  deep  of  judg- 
ment— the  hell  which  He  has  made.  For  this, 
put  plainly — God  forbid  I  should  put  it  pro- 
fanely ! — is  the  awful  doctrine  which  such  so- 
called  Christians  hold  —  also,  strange  to  say, 
many  most  real  and  earnest  Christians,  loving 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


157 


and  tender,  pitiful  and  just ;  who  would  not  for 
worlds  act  like  the  God  they  believe  in.  Which 
mystery  we  can  only  solve  by  hoping  that,  un- 
der its  external  corruption,  there  is  a  perma- 
nent divineness  in  human  nature  which  makes 
it  independent  of  even  the  most  atrocious  creed. 

But  Sir  Edward's  religion  was  of  the  head, 
not  of  the  heart ;  a  creed,  and  nothirtg  more. 
■".Vhen,  in  his  day  of  distress,  he  leaned  upon  it, 
it  broke  like  a  reed.  His  feeble  mind  went 
swinging  to  and  fro  in  wild  uncertainty,  and  he 
clung  to  his  wife  with  a  desperation  pitiful  to 
see. 

"Don't  leave  me!  not  for  a  minute,"  he 
would  say,  during  their  long  weary  days  and 
dreadful  nights,  "and  pray  for  me— keep  al- 
ways praying,  that  I  may  not  die,  that  I  may 
be  allowed  to  live  a  little  longer. " 

Poor  wretch !  as  if  in  the  Life-giver  and  Life- 
taker — omniponent  as  benign — he  saw  only  an 
avenging  demon,  lower  even  than  the  God 
whom,  after  his  small  material  notions,  he  had 
so  eloquently  described,  and  so  patronizingly 
served.  At  this  time,  if  she  had  not  had  her 
six  dead  children  to  think  of — her  children,  so 
loving  and  loved,  whom  God  could  not  have 
taken  in  anger;  who,  when  the  first  shock  of 
their  death  had  passed  away,  began  to  live 
again  to  her,  as  it  were ;  to  wander  about  her 
like  ministering  angels,  whispering,  "God  is 
good,  God  is  good  still" — but  for  this,  I  doubt, 
Josephine  would  have  turned  infidel  or  athe- 
ist. 

As  it  was,  the  spectacle  of  that  miserable 
soul,  still  retaining  consciousness  enough  to  be 
aware  of  its  miseiy,  roused  her  into  a  clear, 
bold,  steady  searching  out  of  religious  truth,  so 
far  as  finite  creatures  can  ever  reach  it.  And 
she  found  it — by  what  means  it  is  useless  here 
to  relate,  nor  indeed  would  it  avail  any  human 
being,  for  every  human  being  must  search  out 
truth  for  himself.  Out  of  the  untenable  nega- 
tion to  which  her  husband's  state  of  mind  led, 
there  forced  itself  upon  hers  a  vital  affirmative ; 
the  only  alternative  possible  to  souls  such  as 
that  which  God  had  given  her — a  soul  which 
longs  after  Him,  can  not  exist  without  Him,  is 
eager  to  know  and  serve  Him,  if  He  only  will 
show  it  the  way ;  but  whether  or  not,  determin- 
ately  loving  Him ;  which  love  is,  to  itself,  the 
most  conclusive  evidence  of  His  own. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville was  ever  an  "orthodox"  Christian; 
indeed,  unlike  most  Christians,  she  never  took 
upon  herself  to  decide  what  was  orthodox  and 
what  heterodox ;  but  a  Christian  she  became ; 
in  faith  and  life,  and  also  in  due  outward^ere- 
monial ;  while  in  her  own  spirit  she  grew  whol- 
ly at  peace.  Out  of  the  clouds  and  thick  dark- 
ness in  which  He  had  veiled  Himself,  she  had 
seen*  God — God  manifest  in  Christ,  and  she  was 
satisfied. 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  would  say  to  Bridget, 
when  coming  for  a  moment's  breathing  space 
out  of  the  atmosphere  of  religious  despair  which 
surrounded  poor  Sir  Edward  —  "strange,  but 


this  gloom  only  seems  to  make  my  light  grow 
stronger.  I  used  to  talk  about  it — we  all  do — 
but  never  ijptil  my  darlings  Avere  there  did  I 
really  believe  in  the  other  world." 

And  slowly,  slowly,  in  the  fluctuations  of  his 
lingering  illness,  did  she  try  to  make  it  as  clear 
to  her  husband  as  it  was  to  herself.  Some- 
times she  succeeded  for  a  little,  and  then  the 
shadows  darkened  down  again.  But  I  can  not, 
would  not  even  if  I  could,  dilate  on  the  history 
of  this  terrible  time,  wherein  day  by  day,  week 
by  week,  and  month  by  month,  Josephine  was 
taught  the  hardest  lesson  possible  to  a  woman 
of  her  temperament — patiently  and  without  hope 
to  endure. 

There  is  a  song  which  of  all  others  my  dear 
old  lady  used  most  to  like  hearing  me  sing ;  it 
is  in  Mendelssohn's  Oratorio  of  "St.  Paul:" 
"Be  thou  faithful  until  death,  and  I  will  give 
thee  a  crown  of  life."  I  never  hear  it,  with 
its  sweet,  clear  tenor  notes  dying  away  in  the 
words  "Be  thou  faithful — be  thou  faithful  un- 
til death,"  without  thinking  of  her.  She  was 
"faithful." 

Sir  Edward  had  a  long  season  of  failing 
health ;  but  at  last  the  death  of  which  he  was 
frightened  came  upon  him  unawares.  The  old 
heart-disease,  which  had  once  been  so  carefully 
concealed  from  him,  after  lying  dormant  for 
years,  till  his  wife  herself  had  almost  forgolj;en 
it,  reappeared,  and  advanced  quicker  than  the 
disease  of  the  brain.  It  was  well.  That  final 
time  of  complete  idiocy,  which  the  doctors 
warned  her  must  be,  and  to  which,  though  she 
kept  up  her  strength  to  meet  it,  she  sometimes 
looked  forward  with  indescribable  dread,  would 
never  come. 

Her  husband  woke  up  one  night,  oppressed 
with  strange  sensations,  and  asked,  as  his  daugh- 
ter Adrienne  had  asked,  but  oh,  with  what  a 
different  face — "Can  this  be  dying?" 

It  was ;  his  wife  knew  it,  and  she  had  to  tell 
him  so. 

Let  me  cover  over  that  awful  scene.  Bridget 
was  witness  to  it,  until  even  she  was  gently 
thrust  away  by  her  beloved  mistress,  who  for 
more  than  an  hour  afterward,  until  seclusion 
was  no  longer  possible,  locked  the  door. 

Toward  morning,  the  mental  horrors  as  well 
as  the  bodily  sufferings  of  the  dying  man  abated 
a  little ;  but  still  he  kept  fixed  upon  his  wife 
that  frightened  gaze,  as  If  she,  and  she  only, 
could  save  him. 

"Josephine!"  he  cried  continually,  "come 
near  me — nearer  still ;  hold  me  fast ;  take  care 
of  me!" 

"I  will,"  she  said,  and  lay  down  beside  him 
on  the  bed — her  poor  husband,  all  she  had  left 
in  the  world  ! — almost  praying  that  it  might  be 
the  will  of  God  to  lengthen  out  a  little  longer 
his  hopeless,  useless  life,  even  though  this  might 
prove  to  herself  a  torture  and  a  burden  greater 
than  she  could  bear.  But  all  the  while  she  felt 
her  wish  was  vain ;  that  he  must  go — was  al- 
ready going. 

"Edward,"  she  whispered,  and  took  firm 


158 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


hold  of  the  nen^eless  hand  which  more  than 
thirty  years  ago  had  placed  the  wedding-ring 
upon  her  finger — "  Edward,  do  nq^  be  afraid ; 
I  am  close  beside  you — to  the  very  last." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  afterward?  Where 
am  I  going  ?  Tell  me,  where  am  I  going  ?  Or 
go  with  me.     Can  you  not  go  with  me  ?" 

"I  wish  I  could!"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  Ed- 
ward, I  wish  I  could ! " 

Then  again  she  told  him  not  to  be  afraid. 
"Say  'Our  Father,' just  as  the  children  used 
to  do  at  night.  He  is  our  Father.  He  will 
not  harm  you.  He  will  only  touch  you — though 
how,  I  do  not  know ;  but  surely,  surely  He  will ! 
Edward — husband,"  pressing  closer  to  his  ear 
as  the  first  struggles  of  death  came  on,  and  the 
blindness  of  death  began  to  creep  over  his  eyes. 
*' There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of ;  God  is  good." 

And  then,  when  speech  had  quite  failed  him, 
Josephine  crept  down  on  her  knees  beside  the 
bed,  and  repeated  in  her  sweet,  clear  voice, 
"  Our  Father,  which  art  in  heaven,"  to  the  end. 

The  words,  comprehensible  to  the  feeblest 
intellect,  yet  all  that  the  sublimest  faith  can 
arrive  at,  might  have  reached  him,  or  might 
not,  God  knows !  but  the  dying  man's  strug- 
gles ceased,  and  a  quiet  look,  not  unlike  his 
daughter  Adrienne — the  one  of  his  children 
who  most  resembled  him — came  over  his  face. 
In  ♦that  sudden  "lightening  before  death"  so 
often  seen,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  fixed  them 
on  his  wife  with  the  gaze  almost  of  her  young 
lover  Edward  Scanlan.  She  stooped  and  kissed 
him  ;  and  while  she  was  kissing  him  he  slipped 
away,  where  she  could  not  "take  care"  of  him 
any  more. 

Thither — it  is  not  I  who  dare  follow  and 
judge  him.  Poor  Sir  Edward  de  Bougain- 
YiUe! 


'^  THE  EPILOGUE, 

Which  perhaps  none  will  listen  to.  They 
may  say,  "The  curtain  has  fallen;  the  play  is 
played  Out.     No  more  !" 

But  the  play  was  not  played  out.  Who  dare 
say,  "My  work  is  done,"  till  the  breath  fails 
wherewith  to  say  it?  Thus,  if  after  her  sad 
and  stormy  life  it  pleased  Heaven  to  give  a  sun- 
shiny sunset  to  my  dear  Lady  de  Bougainville, 
why  should  I  not  tell  it  ?  even  though  the  tell- 
ing involves  more  than  people  may  care  to  hear 
of  this  insignificant  life  of  mine — which  only  be- 
came of  value  after  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  But 
there  was  once  a  little  mouse  who  gnawed  the 
net-meshes  of  an  imprisoned  lion  ;  and  though 
the  creature  never  pretended  to  be  any  thing 
but  a  mouse,  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  very 
happy-minded  mouse  ever  afterward. 

Where  shall  I  take  up  my  story  ?  From  the 
day  when  she  turned  the  key  of  the  little  hair- 
trunk,  thereby  silently  locking  up — as,  child 
almost  as  I  was,  I  felt  that  I  myself 'would  have 
locked  up — the  treasure-house  of  the  past  ?  I 
asked  her  no  questions,  and  she  gave  me  no 


explanations;  but  from  that  hour  there  arose 
an  unspoken  tenderness  and  a  sympathy  stron- 
ger even  than  that  which  not  seldom  draws  to- 
gether the  old  and  the  young,  in  spite  of— nay, 
rather  on  account  of — the  great  difference  be- 
tween them.  Contrast  without  contrariety  is 
one  of  the  great  laws  of  harmonious  Nature  ; 
and  two'  people,  however  unhke,  who  have  the 
same  ideal,  will  probably  suit  one  another  bet- 
ter than  many  who  seem  more  akin.  It  was 
just  as  when,  on  reading  some  great  poe"t — so 
great,  yet  so  simple — I  used  to  be  astonished 
and  yet  pleased  that  I  could  comprehend  him. 
So,  I  grew  worthier  and  better  in  my  own  sight 
to  find  I  could  in  a  dim,  feeble  way  understand 
Lady  de  Bougainville. 

Are  no  love- vows  registered  except  by  lov- 
ers ?  I  think  there  are,  I  could  tell  of  a  cer- 
tain little  maid  who  lay  awake  half  the  night, 
thinking  of  caliphs  and  viziers,  and  oW  trunks 
with  dead  children's  clothes  ;  and  of  what  King 
David  said  about  the  term  of  mortal  life  being 
threescore  years  and  ten,  "and  if  by  reason 
of  strength  we  attain  unto  fourscore  years." 
Ten  years  more,  then.  Ten  years  to  try  and 
fill  up  a  blank  life ;  to  make  a  dull  life  cheer- 
ful, perhaps  even  happy.  Ten  years  for  a  mo- 
therless child  to  give  passionate,  adoring  filial 
duty  to  the  mother  of  six  dead  children ;  re- 
ceiving— well,  perhaps  nothing ;  but  it  mat- 
tered not.  The  delight  was  in  the  duty,  not 
its  reward  :  in  the  vow  and  its  fulfillment,  rath- 
er than  in  the  way  it  might  be  accepted  by  its 
object.  This,  time  would  show.  Meanwhile, 
in  the  dead  of  night,  with  the  last  flicker  of 
flame  lighting  up  the  wax  figure  of  John  the 
Baptist,  and  the  white  owl — which  had  brought 
up  her  young,  I  heard,  year  after  year  in  the 
ivied  court-yard  below  —  hooting  mournfully 
under  the  window,  the  vow  was  made.  And, 
thank  God  !  I  have  kept  it  to  this  day. 

When  I  came  down  at  eight  o'clock,  it  was 
to  an  everyday  breakfast-table,  where  sat — no, 
not  an  everyday  old  lady,  talking  to  an  old  wo- 
man, as  broad  as  she  was  long,  with  a  kind, 
good,  ugly  face,  who  stood  behind  her  chair. 
Mistress  and  servant  were,  I  believe,  nearly  the 
same  age,  but  the  former  looked  much  the  old- 
er. They  were  talking  together  with  that  re- 
spectful tenderness  on  one  side,  and  friendly 
confidence  on  the  other,  which  mark  at  once 
two  people  who  in  this  relation  have  spent  to- 
gether nearly  all  their  lives. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  looked  up  as  I  entered, 
and  turned  upon  me — a  little  suddenly,  as  if  she 
had  momentarily  forgotten  me — her  beautiful 
smillK 

I  began  this  book  by  a  picture  of  her,  as  near 
as  I  could  draw  it,  as  she  first  ajDpeared  to  me. 
Now,  when  I  have  since  tried  to  paint  her  in 
different  shape,  will  the  likeness  be  recogniz- 
able ?  Will  any  one  trace  in  the  stately  lady 
of  seventy,  sitting  placidly  at  her  lonely  break- 
fast-table, the  passionate  Josephine  Scanlan  of 
Wren's  Nest  ?  Still  less  will  there  be  read  in 
the  sweet  old  face — the  cheeks  of  which  were 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


159. 


pink  and  fresh  as  a  child's,  for  she  had  been 
out  in  her  garden,  she  told  me,  since  seven  in 
the  morning — those  years  of  anguish  and  trial, 
ending  in  the  total  desolation  of  the  widowed 
wife  and  childless  mother,  from  whom  God  had 
taken  every  thing — every  thing!  leaving  her 
alive,  and  that  was  all. 

Strange  —  inconceivably  strange  !  —  and  yet 
most  true.  Sometimes  —  as  she  showed  me 
that  day  in  one  of  her  favorite  laurels — when  a 
healthy  tree  has  been  blighted  by  frost,  if  it 
still  retains  a  fragment  of  vitality  it  will  shoot 
up  again,  not  in  its  old  shape,  but  in  a  differ- 
ent one,  and  thus  live  on.     So  did  she. 

"  Bridget,"  said  Lady  de  Bougainville,  "  this 
is  Miss  Weston,  who  has  been  so  very  ill,  and 
is  come  to  us  to  be  made  well  again.  Bridget 
will  look  after  you  and  take  care  of  you,  my 
dear.  She  is  wonderful  at  nursing,  and  rather 
likes  having  somebody  to  make  a  fuss  over." 

Bridget  courtesied,  with  a  fond  look  at  her 
lady;  and  then,  softening  a  little,  I  suppose, 
at  my  white  face — for  I  was  very  weak  still — 
hoped  with  true  Irish  politeness  that  I  should 
soon  get  better ;  every  body  must  feel  the  bet- 
ter for  coming  to  Brierley  Hall.  In  which  sen- 
timent I  cordially  agreed  with  her.  And  per- 
haps she  was  sharp  enough  to  see  my  heart  in 
my  eyes,  for  she  gradually  became  mild  toward 
me,  and  we  grew  capital  friends,  Bridget  and  I. 

And  Bridget's  mistress  ? 

I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  every  hour 
of  that  day,  the  first  whole  day  that  I  spent 
with  her,  and  which  was  the  type  of  many  other 
days  ;  for  they  were  all  alike.  Existence  went 
on  like  clock-work  in  that  great,  lonely,  peace- 
ful, beautiful  house.  At  seven — winter  and 
summer — the  mistress  was  in  her  garden,  where 
she  had  a  personal  acquaintance  with  every 
flower  and  bush  and  tree,  and  with  every  liv- 
ing thing  that  inhabited  them. 

'*I  think,"  she  said  to  me  one  day,  "  I  am 
fonder  of  my  garden  than  even  of  my  house, 
because,  you  see,  it  is  alive.  And  it  is  always 
busy — always  growing.  Even  at  my  time  of 
life  I  like  to  see  things  busy  and  growing." 

She  was  always  busy,  certainly.  To  my  sur- 
prise, directly  after  breakfast  she  sat  down  to 
her  "work  ;"  and  very  hard  work  it  was,  too. 
First,  the  management  of  her  household,  into 
the  details  of  which  she  entered  with  the  minut- 
est accuracy :  liberal,  but  allowing  no  waste ; 
trustful,"  but  keeping  a  careful  observation  of 
every  thing.  Next,  the  "  stewardship,"  as  she 
called  it,  of  her  large  fortune,  which  entailed 
much  correspondence  ;  for  her  public  and  pri- 
vate charities  seemed  endless.  She  was  the 
best  woman  of  business  I  ever  knew.  She  an- 
swered her  letters  every  day,  and  paid  her  bills 
every  week :  "  For,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  those 
that  come  after  me  to  have,  when  I  die,  as  lit- 
tle trouble  as  possible." 

This  solitary  living — solitary  dying — which 
she  referred  to  so  continually  and  so  calmly — 
at  first  seemed  to  me  very  terrible.  Yet  beau- 
tiful too ;  for  it  was  a  life  utterly  out  of  herself. 


Sitting  at  her  little  writing-table,  in  her  comer 
by  the  fire,  she  seemed  forever  planning  how, 
by  purse  or  influence  or  kindly  thoughtfulness, 
she  could  help  others.  "  I  have  nothing  else 
to  do,"  she  said,  when  I  noticed  this ;  and  then, 
as  if  shrinking  from  having  said  too  much,  or 
betrayed  too  much  by  the  sigh  which  accom- 
panied the  words,  she  began  hastily  to  tell  me 
the  history  of  a  letter  she  was  then  writing  to 
a  certain  Priscilla  Nunn,  for  whom  she  had  just 
bought  an  annuity. 

*'  I  paid  it  myself  for  several  years,  and  then 
I  began  to  think,  suppose  I  were  to  die  first, 
what  would  become  of  Priscilla?  So  I  have 
made  all  safe  to-day ;  I  am  so  glad." 
.  She  looked  glad,  with  the  pure  joy  that  has 
nothing  personal  in  it ;  and  then,  in  that  pretty 
garrulousness  which  was  almost  the  only  sign 
of  age  about  her,  began  to  tell  me  more  of  this 
Priscilla  Nunn,  and  how  she,  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville, had  once  sewed  for  her. 

"For  money,  Winifred.  For,  as  I  told  you 
last  night,  I  was  once  very  poor." 

*'But  you  are  not  sorry  to  be  rich?  Not 
sorry  to  be  able  to  do  such  things  as  you  have 
just  now  been  doing.  Oh,  it  must  be  grand — 
grand !  To  sit  in  your  quiet  corner  here,  and 
stretch  invisible  comforting  hands  half  over  the 
world,  just  like  Providence  itself.  How  I  envy 
you  !  What  it  must  be  to  have  power,  unlimit- 
ed power,  to  make  people  happy ! " 

"  God  only  can  do  that,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"Yes ;  but  He  uses  you  to  do  it  for  Him." 

I  know  not  how  the  words  came  into  my 
mouth,  but  they  did  come,  and  they  seemed  to 
please  Lady  de  Bougainville.  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  mine,  very  kindly. 

"You  speak  'wiser  than  you  are  ware  of;' 
and  even  an  old  woman  is  not  too  old  to  learn 
wisdom  from  the  lips  of  a  child." 

Then  she  rose,  and  saying  her  work  was  done 
for  to-day,  took  me  with  her  into  the  library. 

That  library,  what  a  world  of  wealth  it  was ! 
— an  ancient  and  modern  literature,  down  to 
last  month's  reviews  and  magazines. 

"  I  took  to  reading  twenty  years  ago,  to  keep 
myself  from  thinking,"  said  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville ;  "and  in  my  long  evenings  I  have  tauglit 
myself  a  little  of  modern  languages.  But  I 
never  was  an  educated  woman.  No  doubt," 
she  added,  with  a  smile,  "you,  a  modern  young 
lady,  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I." 

Perhaps  I  did,  having  swallowed  an  enor- 
mous quantity  of  unassimilated  mental  food  ; 
but  I  was  a  starved  young  pedant  still,  and  I 
had  not  lived  three  days  with  Lady  de  Bougain-  ** 
ville  before  she  taught  me  the  wholesomcst  les- 
son a  girl  of  my  age  could  learn — my  own  enor- 
mous ignorance. 

Taught  it  me  quite  unconsciously,  in  daylight 
walks  and  fireside  talks ;  when,  after  her  long 
lack  of  any  companionship,  even  mine,  such  as 
it  was,  proved  not  unwelcome  to  that  strong, 
clear  brain,  which  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  the 
empty  heart  and  saved  it  from  breaking. 

Yet  there  was  a,  good  deal  of  eccentricity 


160 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


about  her  too,  and  about  her  way  of  life,  which 
had  long  fallen  into  such  a  mechanical  round 
that  she  disliked  the  slightest  change  therein. 
To  press  one  hour's  duties  into  the  next  one,  to 
delay  or  alter  a  meal,  to  rise  later  or  go  to  bed 
earlier  than  usual,  was  to  her  an  actual  pain. 
But  these  were  only  the  little  spots  in  my  sun. 
She  shone  still,  the  centre  of  her  peaceful  world ; 
flora  her  radiated  all  the  light  it  had ;  and,  in  its 
harmony  and  regularity,  I,  poor  little  wandering 
star  that  I  was !  first  learned,  in  great  things  and 
small,  the  comfort,  the  beauty,  the  actual  divine- 
ness  of  heaven's  first  law — Order. 

Yet  when  I  lived  longer  with  her,  and,  my 
visit  over,  found  some  excuse,  often  so  shallow 
that  she  actually  smiled,  ibr  coming  to  see  her 
nearly  every  day,  it  was  impossible  not  to  allow 
that  Brierley  was  right  in  calling  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville "  peculiar."  She  had  some  crotchets, 
absolute  crotchets,  which  one  would  have  smiled 
at  but  for  the  causes  which  had  originated  them, 
too  sad  for  any  smile.  She  never  would  enter 
a  single  house  in  Brierley — that  is,  a  well-to-do 
house,  though  she  often  crossed  the  thresholds 
of  the  poor.  Nor  would  she  have  any  visitors 
of  her  own  rank  ;  she  shut  her  doors,  as  I  once 
told  her,  laughing,  upon  all  "respectable"  peo- 
ple. Even  my  father,  except  for  his  formal 
clerical  visits,  was  not  admitted  there  any  more 
than  the  old  rector  had  been.  She  seemed  to 
shrink  from  all  association  with  the  outside 
world — that  is,  personal  association — though  she 
knew  all  that  was  going  on  therein,  and  liked 
to  hear  of  events  and  people,  near  and  remote, 
in  which  I  tried  to  interest  her.  But  though 
she  listened,  it  was  always  with  a  gentle  indif- 
ference, as  if  that  long  frozen-up  heart,  which 
was  kind  to  all  living  things,  was  capable  only 
of  kindness,  nothing  more ;  the  warm  throb  of 
responsive  human  affection  being  stilled  in  it 
forever.  * 

I  often  thought  so.  And  when  I,  in  my  im- 
petuous youth,  used  day  after  day  to  spring  up 
the  entrance  steps,  guarded  by  their  two  huge 
stone  vases,  and,  with  an  expectation  eager 
as  any  of  the  "  fellows"  (as  Lady  G.  in  "  Sir 
Charles  Grandison"  calls  them)  that  used  to 
come  a-courting  to  the  young  gentlewomen  in 
hoops  and  farthingales  who  once  inhabited  Bri- 
erley Hall — I  went  in  search  of  my  beautiful  old 
lady,  my  silly  heart  often  sank  down  like  lead. 
For,  though  she  always  paused  in  whatever  she 
was  doing,  to  give  me  the  gentle  "Is  that  you, 
my  dear  ?  how  kind  of  you  to  come  and  see 
me, "  I  felt,  by  her  very  use  of  the  word,  that 
her  heart  toward  me  was  only  "kind" — that 
was  all. 

Well !  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  What  a 
foolish  girl  was  I  to  expect  it  to  be. otherwise ! 
And  yet  it  sometimes  made  me  a  little  sad  to 
think  I  had  only  the  stubble  end  of  her  life, 
while  she  reaped  the  whole  rich  harvest  of  mine. 
"  Ridiculous !"  most  people  would  say ;  "  Con- 
temptible!" I  think  she  would  have  said,  who 
of  all  women  most  understood  what  that  love  is 
which  loves  freely,  hoping  for  nothing  again. 


Yet  I  fretted  a  good  deal  about  it,  until  chance 
brought  my  trouble  to  a  climax,  and  me  to  my 
right  senses  for  evermore. 

Somebody  hinted  to  my  father  that  I  was  go- 
ing too  much  to  Brierley  Hall ;  that  people 
would  say  I  had  designs  upon  the  old  lady,  who 
had  a  large  fortune  and  no  heirs.  So  he,  being 
a  proud  man,  dear  heart !  and  a  sorrowful,  hard 
life  had  made  him  prouder  still,  when  my  next 
invitation  came,  forbade  my  going  thither. 

I  rebelled.  For  the  first  time  in  our  lives  my 
father  and  I  had  words — and  bitter  words,  too. 
I  was  not  a  child  now ;  I  was  past  seventeen, 
with  a  strong  will  of  my  own ;  and  it  was  not 
only  my  own  pleasure  that  I  grieved  to  lose. 
Summer  had  gone  by,  that  long,  bright  summer 
when  I  had  been  made  so  happy  at  Brierley 
Hall,  and  grown  familiar  with  every  nook  within 
and  without  it.  Now,  the  bare  trees  stretched 
empty  arms  up  to  the  leaden  winter  sky,  and 
within  the  house — the  large,  chilly,  gloomy 
house — where  the  Christmas  holly  smiled  for- 
lornly upon  the  vacant  rooms,  sat  one  lonely  old 
woman,  who,  rich  as  she  was,  sweet  and  lova- 
ble as  every  day  I  found  her  more  and  more  to 
be,  was  still  only  a  woman,  lonely  and  old. 

"I  will  go  to  her,  whatever  you  say!"  cried 
I,  in  a  passion  of  tears,  and  rushed  from  my 
father,  hardly  knoAving  what  I  was  doing,  or 
what  I  meant  to  do — rushed  through  the  stormy 
afternoon  to  Brierley  Hall. 

Lady  de  Bougainville  was  sitting  in  the  cedar 
parlor,  the  smallest  and  least  dreary  of  all  the 
rooms.  For  a  wonder  she  was  doing  nothing, 
only  looking  into  the  fire,  which  had  dropped 
into  hollow  blackness,  as  if  long  unstirred. 

"  How  good  of  you,  Winny,  to  come  all 
through  the  rain !  I  am  quite  idle,  you  see, 
though  I  have  plenty  of  work  to  do.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  fault  of  my  eyes,  and  not  the  dark  day, 
but  I  can  not  manage  to  thread  my  needle." 

She  spoke  a  little  sadly.  I  knew,  if  she  had 
a  dread  in  this  world  it  was  of  her  sight  failing 
her,  of  growing  "dark,"  as  Bridget  called  it, 
which  to  one  so  independent  in  her  ways,  and 
disliking  dependence  more  even  than  old  people 
usually  do,  would  have  been  darkness  indeed. 

"  Still,  if  it  comes,"  added  she,  sighing  again 
(I  knew  what  "it"  meant),  "I  hope  I  shall  be 
able  to  bear  it." 

"It  will  not  come,  and  if  it  did,  you  would 
bear  it,"  said  I,  passionately,  as  I  sat  down  on 
the  foot-stool  beside  her,  and  took  possession 
of  her  dear  old  hand,  playing  ostensibly  with 
the  emeralds  and  diamonds  which  covered  it. 
But  it  was  the  hand  I  loved,  soft  and  warm, 
strong  and  delicate,  lovely  to  look  at,  lovely  to 
feel;  as  I  can  see  and  feel  it  still,  though — 
No,  I  will  have  none  of  these  tears.  We  may 
weep  over  the  blasted,  withered  corn,  the  grain 
trodden  under  foot,  or  scattered  unreaped  to 
the  winds  of  heaven ;  but  when  the  ripe  sheaf 
is  gathered  into  the  garner,  then  who  grieves  ? 

Let  me  remember  her  as  she  sat  in  her  casy- 
•chair  and  I  sat  at  her  feet,  trying  to  amuse  her 
all  I  oould ;  with  tales  of  the  village,  of  the 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


161 


neighbors,  of  various  Christmas  treats  in  the 
school-rooms  and  the  alms-houses,  and  so  on. 
To  all  of  which  she  listened  with  her  usual  smile ; 
I  and  I  kept  up  mine  too  as  well  as  I  could.  But 
'  I  was  not  good  at  deception,  I  suppose,  for  she 
said,  suddenly: 

"Winifred,  there  is  something  on  your  mind ; 
tell  me  what  it  is.  I  should  be  sorry  if  any  trou- 
ble were  to  come  near  my  merry  little  Mouse." 
(Mouse  was  a  name  she  had  for  me  from  my 
smallness,  my  bright  eyes — yes,  I  fancy  they 
were  bright,  being  like  my  father's — and  the 
brown  of  my  hair.) 

The  kind  words — so  unexpected — touched 
me  to  the  quick.  Bursting  into  tears,  I  poured 
out  to  her  my  grievous  woe  and  wrong. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  What  mountains  of  mole-hills 
we  do  make  at  seventeen !  To  be  in  such  de- 
spair from  a  lost  visit !     My  silly  little  girl !" 

I  drew  back  in  sensitive  pain.  Evidently, 
the  real  cause  of  my  grief,  the  dread  I  had  of 
being  separated  from  her,  and  the  fact  that  the 
chief  happiness  of  my  life  consisted  in  being 
with  her,  had  never  occurred  to  my  dear  old  lady. 

It  was  hard :  even  now  I  recognize  that  it 
Vas  hard.  And  I  do  not  hate  poor  Winny 
Weston,  that  the  bitterness  and  anguish  of  her 
heart  found  vent  in  exaggerated  words. 

"Silly  am  I!  I  know  that,  and  no  wonder 
you  thinlc  so.  It  is  no  matter  to  you  how  sel- 
dom I  see  you,  or  if  I  am  never  allowed  to  see 
you  again.  I  am  nothing  to  you,  while  you 
are  every  thing  to  me." 

A  declaration  as  impetuous  as  that  of  any 
young  man  in  love — nay,  I  have  taunted  one 
young  man  with  its  being  more  so !  No  wonder 
Lady  de  Bougainville  was  a  little  astonished  by 
it — until,  perceiving  how  real  my  emotion  was, 
she,  with  a  curious  sort  of  look — 

"Half  smiling,  half  sorry, 
Gazed  down,  like  the  angels  in  separate  glory," 

upon  poor,  foolish,  miserable  me. 

Then  she  spoke  seriously,  even  sadly :  "Win- 
ny, I  had  no  idea  you  cared  for  me  so  much ; 
I  thought  no  one  ever  would  care  for  me  again 
in  this  world." 

While  she  spoke  a  quiver  ran  across  her  feat- 
ures, and  a  dimness — I  could  hardly  believe  it 
tears,  for  I  had  never  seen  her  shed  one — gath- 
ered in  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said  again — "very 
good  to  an  old  woman  like  me ;  and  I  am  grate- 
ful." 

Grateful!  Lady  de  Bougainville  grateful  to 
me?  And  telling  me  so  with  that  sweet  dig- 
nity which  made  me  more  than  ever  ashamed 
of  myself;  for  had  I  not  heard  her  say  more 
than  once,  that  the  love  which  worries  its  ob- 
ject with  jealous  exactions  is  not  love,  but  the 
merest  selfishness  ? 

I  hung  my  head.  I  begged  her  pardon. 
"But,"  I  said,  "this  is  hard  for  me — harder 
than  you  think.  What  chance  have  I  of  learn- 
ing to  be  good,  and  sensible,  and  womanly,  ex- 
cepting through  you?     I  thought  you  would 


have  '  grown'  me,  as  you  do  your  young  serv- 
ants and  your  cabbages." 

I  had  made  her  smile,  which  was  what  I 
wanted  ;  also,  perhaps,  to  wipe  out  with  a  silli- 
er jest  the  remembrance  of  my  romantic  folly. 

"And  then,  as  you  told  me  once,  no  sooner 
do  they  get  hearts  in  them  than  some  young 
man  of  Brierley  finds  it  out  and  carries  them 
off.  It  would  be  just  the  same  with  you,  Win- 
ny!" 

"Never!"  I  cried,  indignantly;  "I  wish  for 
nothing  better  than  to  spend  my  whole  life  be- 
side you." 

"Ah!  that  is  what  children  often  say  to 
their  parents,  yet  they  marry  for  all  that." 

"  I  never  would,  if  I  were  a  child  of  yours." 

"A  child  of  mine!"  The  words  seemed  to 
pierce  her  like  sharp  steel.  "You  forget  I 
have  no  children — that  is,  all  my  children  are 
in  heaven.  No  one  on  earth  can  ever  replace 
them  to  me." 

I  had  gone  too  far;  I  recognized  it  now. 
Recognized,  too,  with  a  passionate  sympathy 
that  almost  took  away  the  personal  pain,  what 
tenacity  of  faithfulness  was  in  this  strong  heart 
of  hers,  which  admitted  no  substitutes.  Other 
interests  might  cluster  round  it  outside,  but  its 
inner,  empty  niches  would  remain  empty  for- 
ever. 

"No,"  I  said,  gently — not  even  attempting  to 
repossess  myself  of  her  dear  hand,  which  had 
slid  from  mine  somehow — "neither  I  nor  any 
one  could  ever  dream  of  replacing  to  you  your 
children.  But  you  will  let  me  be  your  little 
servant?     I  love  you  so." 

She  was  touched,  I  saw.  Even  through  the 
frost  of  age,  and  of  those  many  desolate  years, 
she  felt  the  warmth  of  this  warm  young  love  of 
mine.  Stooping  down  she  kissed  me  affection- 
ately ;  and  giving  me  one  of  her  hands,  sat,  with 
the  other  shading  her  face,  for  ever  so  long. 
We  made  no  mutual  protestations  —  indeed  I 
think  we  hardly  exchanged  another  word  on  the 
subject^-but  from  that  hour  our  relations  seem- 
ed to  rest  on  quite  a  different  footing,  and  we 
understood  tacitly  that  they  were  to  last  for 
life. 

I  could  have  sat  forever  at  her  feet,  catching 
glimpses  of  her  face  in  the  fire-light,  and  won- 
dering how  it  felt  to  have  had  every  thing  and 
lost  every  thing,  and  to  come  to  sit  at  seventy 
years  of  age  by  a  vacant  hearth,  with  all  one's 
treasures  in  heaven ;  and,  as  the  Bible  says, 
"where  one's  treasure  is,  there  will  one's  heart 
be  also."  Wondering,  too,  whether  it  was  that 
which  caused  the  peace  that  I  saw  gradually 
growing  in  her  face,  as  at  last  removing  her 
hand  she  left  it  for  me  to  gaze  at.  It  was 
quite  bright  now. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  little  plans,  Winny," 
said  she,  cheerfully,  "  and  you  shall  hear  from 
me  to-morrow — that  is,  your  father  shnll.  Now 
go  home  to  him,  for  it  is  growing  dark,  and  he 
will  be  anxious.  Happy  you  to  have  a  father 
who  is  anxious  over  you !  We  must  not  vex 
him.     Parents  first,  always." 


162 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


"Yes,"  I  answered,  but  it  might  have  been 
a  little  dolefully,  and  more  lingeringly  even 
than  usual  I  might  have  taken  my  departure ; 
for  just  at  the  door  Lady  de  Bougainville  called 
me  back. 

"  Child" — and  the  hand  she  laid  on  my  shoul- 
der was  firm  as  that  of  youth,  and  her  eyes 
blazed  as  they  might  have  done  thirty  or  forty 
yeai's  ago.  "Child,  be  wise!  Before  you 
sleep,  make  friends  with  your  father,  and  be 
thankful  that  he  is  such  a  father — a  prudent, 
tender,  honorable  man.  All  men  are  not  so. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  will  of  God  to  tie  together, 
by  relationship  or  marriage,  people  who  are  so 
unlike  that,  if  not  thus  tied,  they  would  fly  from 
one  another  to  the  world's  end.  And  some- 
times"— her  voice  sank  lower — "it  is  right  so 
to  fly.  They  have  to  choose  between  good  and 
evil,  between  God  and  man.  Pity  them,  but 
let  no  one  dare  to  ju,dge  them — no  one  can — 
except  the  Judge  of  all." 

She  stopped,  trembling  violently.  Why,  I 
knew  not  then ;  I  do  now.  But  very  soon  she 
recovered  herself— the  sooner,  I  think,  because 
she  saw  that  I  understood  nothing  below  the 
mere  words  she  was  saying.  All  I  did  was  to 
stand  shamefaced  before  her — she,  who  was  so 
wise,  so  good ;  so  infinitely  wiser  and  better 
than  I  could  ever  hope  to  be.     I  said  so. 

"No,"  she  answered,  sadly;  "neither  good 
nor  wise.  Only  one  can  not  live  seventy  years 
and  learn  nothing.  Therefore,  Winifred,  listen 
to  me.  Never  say  to  any  one  what  you  said  to 
me  to-day — that  you  wished  you  could  leave 
your  father.  Some  have  to  do  it,  as  I  said : 
children  from  parents,  wives  from  husbands, 
must  turn  and  depart.  And  if  it  has  to  be 
done" — and  she  drew  herself  erect,  and  her 
eyes  flashed,  almost  fiercely,  till  I  could  under- 
stand what  a  fierce  woman  she  must  have  been 
in  her  youth — "if  it  must  be  done,  I  say,  Do 
it !  unflinchingly,  without  remorse.  Cut  off" 
the  rotten  branch ;  fly  from  the  plague-stricken 
house.  Save  your  soul,  and  fly.  But,  oh !  not 
till  the  last  extremity,  not  till  all  hope  is  gone — 
if  it  ever  is  quite  gone :  we  can  not  tell.  Child, 
those  whom  God  has  given  you,  have  patience 
with  them ;  He  has..  Hold  fast  by  them,  if  it 
be  possible,  to  the  end." 

And  as  she  looked  at  me  I  saw  all  her  fierce- 
ness ebb  away,  and  a  tenderness,  deeper  than 
even  its  usual  peaceful  look,  grow  on  her  dear 
face. 

"Now  go,  my  dear.  I  have  said  enough, 
perhaps  too  much,  but  I  want  you  to  be  friends 
again  with  your  father.  I  think,"  she  added — 
,  (was  it  with  a  natural  fear  at  having  betrayed 
any  thing,  which  I  understood  not  then,  but  do 
now  ?) — "  I  think  I  am  sensitive  on  the  subject 
of  fathers — mine  was  very  dear  to  me.  He 
died — let  me  see — full  fifty  years  ago ;  yet  I  re- 
member him,  and  all  about  that  time,  more 
clearly  than  I  remember  many  nearer  things. 
We  were  very  happy  together,  my  father  and  I." 

She  spoke  calmly  and  cheerfully,  as  it  seems 
people  do  learn  to  speak  of  their  dead  after  fifty 


years ;  and,  kissing  me,  sat  down  again  once 
more  in  her  quiet  arm-chair  by  her  solitary 
fire. 

Next  day  my  father  showed  me  a  letter  which 
he  had  just  received  from  Lady  de  Bougainville, 
asking  his  permission  for  me  to  be  her  reader 
and  amanuensis  for  two  hours  every  forenoon. 
She  needed  such  help,  she  said,  because  of  her 
failing  eyesight,  and  preferred  mine  because 
she  was  used  to  me,  and  "loved"  me. 

"  Not  that  I  wish  to  monopolize  your  daugh- 
ter. "  (I  smiled  to  see  how  boldly  her  noble  can- 
dor cut  the  knot  that  would  have  perplexed  a 
feebler  hand.)  "Still  less  do  I  intend,  as  I 
hear  is  reported  in  Brierley,  to  leave  her  my 
fortune.  It  has  been  left,  for  many  years,  to. 
a  charity.  But  I  wish  to  make  her  independent, 
to  put  in  her  hand  what  every  woman  ought  to 
have — a  weapon  wherewith,  if  necessary,  to  fight 
the  world." 

She  therefore  proposed,  instead  of  salary,  to 
give  me  first-rate  masters  of  every  kind,  and 
that  I  should  take  my  lessons  of  afternoons,  at 
Brierley  Hall.  This  would  make  all  easy,  she 
said,  during  my  father's  frequent  absence  from 
home  all  day  long.  "And  you  may  trust  me 
to  take  care  of  your  child,"  she  added.  "I 
was  a  mother  once." 

This  last  touch  went  to  my  father's  heart— '-a 
tender  heart,  for  all  its  pride. 

"  Poor  lady — poor  lady ! "  said  he.  And  aft- 
er reading  the  letter  over  once  again,  with  the 
comment,  "  She  is  a  wise  old  woman,  this  grand 
friend  of  yours,"  consented  to  it  without  re- 
serve. 

Thus  my  life  was  made  plain  to  me — plain 
and  clear — busy  and  bright ;  nay,  brighter  than 
I  ever  expected.  Por  my  father  himself,  on 
his  own  account,  began  to  admire  Lady  de 
Bougainville. 

Hitherto  they  had  held  aloof,  for  they  differed 
widely  theologically.  She  listened  to  his  ser- 
mons— never  commenting^  never  criticising — 
and  that  was  all.  But,  as  she  slowly  found 
out,  whether  or  not  he  preached  it,  he  lived 
"the  Gospel."  "  Winny,"  said  she  to  me  one 
day,  when  she  had  watched  him  into  one  of 
those  miserable  cottages  which  were  the  dis- 
grace of  our  parish,  where,  like  most  increasing 
parishes,  the  new-built  palatial  residences  of 
our  rich  neighbors  drove  our  poor  neighbors  to 
herd  together  like  pigs  in  a  sty — "  Winny,  some 
of  these  days  I  should  like  to  see  a  little  more 
of  your  father.  Once,  I  believed  in  the  Church 
in  spite  of  the  minister ;  now,  I  believe  in  the 
Church — and  the  minister."  ^ 

And  when  I  told  him  this,  again  he  said, 
"Poor  lady!"  For  my  father,  like  the  Uitc 
Reverend  Sir  Edward  de  Bougainville — of  whom 
he  had  chanced  to  hear  a  good  deal,  since  lie 
came  here,  from  an  Irish  dean  he  kne^ — was  a 
Low-Church  clergyman. 

Low-Church,  High-Church,  Broad-Church— 
what  insane  distinctions !  Oh,  that  I  could  ob- 
literate them  all !  Oh,  that  I  could  make  every 
one  who  serves  at  the  altar  like  this  dear  father 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


163 


of  mine — whom  I  do  not  paint  here,  for  he  is 
mine,  and  he  lives  still,  thank  God !  He  and  I 
do  not  agree  entirely ;  like  many  another  child, 
I  fancy  Heaven  has  granted  to  me  clearer  light 
and  purer  air  than  to  my  father;  but  I  love  him! 
I  love  him !  and  I  believe  God  loves  us  both. 

And  we  both  of  us  lived  and  grew  together  in 
love  more  and  more,  under  the  shadow  of  that 
beautiful  and  benign  old  age  of  Lady  de  Bou- 
gainville. I  can  not  picture  it — who  could  ? — 
but  it  was  most  like  one  of  those  November 
days  which  always  remind  me  of  her ;  when  the 
whole  world  seems  spiritualized  into  a  sunshiny 
tranquillity,  so  that  we  notice  neither  sodden 
leaves  nor  withered  flowers,  nor  silent  gardens 
empty  of  birds,  but  delight  ourselves  in  the  ce- 
lestial beauty  of  the  departing  year,  as  if  it  were 
to  remain  with  us  forever. 

On  just  such  a  day,  the  18th  of  November  (for 
though  I  did  riot  note  the  date,  others  did), 
something  happened  which  was  the  first  break 
in  the  heavenly  monotony  of  our  lives,  and  which 
therefore,  I  suppose,  I  ought  to  set  down,  though 
tome  then,  and  long  afterward,  it  seemed  a  mat- 
ter of  little  moment. 

We  had  been  sitting.  Lady  de  Bougainville 
and  I,  in  the  summer-house  by  the  lake,  where 
we  still  spent  every  fine  afternoon.  She  had 
two  "crotchets,"  she  called  them,  being  quite 
aware  of  every  weakness  she  had,  and  now  and 
then  half  apologizing  for  some  of  them ;  she 
liked  to  live  like  a  bird  in  the  open  air,  and 
every  day  to  see  the  last  of  the  sun.  He  was 
setting  now,  gorgeously,  as  he  often  does  in  No- 
vember, in  front  of  us,  and  making  a  second 
sunset  glow  in  the  yellowing  elm-leaves  which 
still  hung  on  the  boughs  of  the  wood  behind. 
For  the  park  round  Brierley  Hall  was  full  of 
magnificent  trees — the  relics  of  the  old  chase — 
and  its  mistress  barricaded  herself  with  them 
against;  those  honible  villas  which  were  rising 
a  J),  like  red  and  yellow  fungi,  on  every  side.  It 
was  her  weak  point,  that  and  the  niew  railway, 
now  crawling  like  a  snake  every  day  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  as  we  sat  here  we  could  hear  the 
navvies  hammering  in  the  cutting  below. 

It  vexed  her — even  in  her  calm  old  age,  it 
vexed  her.  She  saw  no  beauty  in  these  mod- 
ern improvements,  which  were  making  our  pretty 
village  like  a  London  suburb  ;  and  she  hated, 
with  an  almost  amusing  wrath — which  I  rather 
delighted  in,  since  it  brought  her  down  to  the 
level  of  common  mortals — every  new-built  house 
that  lifted  up  its  ugly  head,  chimney-laden,  to 
V   stare  into  her  green  domain. 

"There  is  another,  I  declare!"  she  cried, 
catching  a  sight  which  I  had  noticed  days  be- 
fore, but  kept  to  myself  Now  the  thinned 
trees  discovfered  it  all  top  plain.  "Look,  Win- 
ifred, your  eyes  are  better  than  mine.  Is  there 
not  building  a  great,  yellow-brick  house,  with  a 
turret  to  it,  which  will  overlook  us  where  we 
nit  ?  Honible !  I  never  infringe  on  my  neigh- 
l)ors'  rights,  but  I  must  preserve  my  own.  This 
must  be  seen  to  immediately." 

I  encouraged  her  wrath,  I  fear,  for  it  did  my 


heart  good  to  see  it — to  find  her  so  much  "of 
the  earth  earthy."  Since  these  three  days  she 
had  been  kept  indoors  with  one  of  the  slight 
illnesses  which  sometimes  came  even  to  her 
healthy  old  age,  and  wliich  she  called,  with  the 
quaint  phraseology  she  often  used,  "  her  mes- 
sages from  home." 

So  I  followed  her,  smiling  to  myself,  as  with 
a  firm,  indignant  step  she  walked  home,  fast 
as  any  young  woman,  and  sent  a  message  to 
the  owner,  builder,  foreman,  or  whoever  was  in 
charge  of  the  obnoxious  house,  that  Lady  de 
Bougainville  wished  to  speak  to  him  immedi- 
ately. ( 

I  smiled  then.  I  smile  now,  with  a  strange, 
half-sad  content,  to  think  how  little  we  know 
what  is  before  us,  and  upon  what  merest  trifles 
hang  all  the  momentous  things  of  our  lives. 

Immediately,  as  she  had  requested — indeed 
so  soon  that  we  had  hardly  time  to  recover  our 
equilibrium,  since  even  such  a  small  thing  as 
this  was  An  event  in  our  quiet  days — appeared 
a  gentleman — yes  ;  Bridget,  who  saw  him  wait- 
ing in  the  hall,  was  certain  he  was  a  gentleman 
— who  sent  up  his  card,  saying  he  was  the  archi- 
tect of  the  house  opposite. 

"Mr.  Edward  Donelly!  An  Irish  name," 
said  Lady  de  Bougainville,  shrinking  back  with 
vainly  suppressed  repugnance.  "I  think  I  would 
rather  not  see  him.  I  have  not  seen  a  stranger 
for  so  many  years.  Winifred,  will  you  speak  to 
him?" 

I  might  have  reasoned,  but  had  long  ceased 
to  reason,  against  those  dear,  pathetic  "  pecul- 
iarities" of  hers — may  others  have  patience  with 
mine  when  I  am  seventy  years  old !  So,  unhes- 
itatingly— thinking  only  to  save  her  from  any 
annoyance,  and  furious  against  house,  owner, 
architect,  any  one  who  should  presume  to  an- 
noy her — her,  before  whom  I  would  have  laid 
myself  down  as  a  mat  for  her  feet  to  walk  over 
— I  marched  into  the  cedar  parlor. 

There  stood  a — yes,  he  was  a  gentleman, 
though  not  an  elderly  one,  as  I  had  expected. 
He  seemed  about  five  or  six  and  twenty,  tall — 
six  feet  and  more — which  gave  him  a  most  un- 
pleasant advantage  over  me,  poor  furious  pigmy 
that  I  was !  A  worse  advantage  was  his  look 
of  exceeding  good-humor,  his  apparent  uncon- 
sciousness of  having  offended  me  or  any  body 
else  in  the  world.  Such  a  bright,  honest,  cheer- 
ful face,  such  a  pleasant  manner !  It  was  irri- 
tating to  the  last  degree. 

'*  Lady  de  Bougainville,  I  presume  ?  No — I 
beg  your  pardon,"  and  he  actually  smiled,  the 
wretch!  "She  is,  I  hear,  an  elderly  lady. 
What  does  she  want  with  me?  Is  there  any 
thing — something  about  this  new  house,  her  mes- 
senger thought — in  which  I  can  oblige  her  ?" 

"  Only  by  pulling  it  down — every  brick  of  it," 
cried  I,  throwing  down  the  gauntlet  and  rush- 
ing into  battle  at  once.  "You  ought  to  do 
this,  for  it  overlooks  her  property,  and  annoys 
her  excessively.  And  nobody  ought  to  annoy 
her,  at  her  age,  and  so  good  as  she  is.  JS^obody 
ever  should,  if  I  could  help  it." 


164 


A  BEAVE  LADY. 


"Are  you  her  daughter,  or  niece?"  said  Mr. 
Donelly,  looking  at  me  in  a  curious  way ;  no 
doubt  my  anger  amused  him  excessively,  but 
he  was  too  polite  to  show  it.  And  then — with- 
out waiting  for  the  answer  to  his  question,  which 
perhaps  he  felt  he  had  no  right  to  put — he  went 
on  to  explain  to  me,  very  quietly  and  courteous- 
ly, that  his  employer,  having  bought  the  ground, 
had  a  perfect  right  to  build  upon  it  any  house  he 
chose,  provided  it  was  not  obnoxious  to  his  neigh- 
bors. 

"Which  is,  indeed,  the  last  thing  he  would 
desire ;  for,  though  only  a  plebeian,  as  you  call 
him — in  fact  a  retired  tradjesman — he  is  a  very 
worthy  fellow.  I  feel  with  him,  for  I  also  am 
a  self-made  man ;  my  father  was  a  mechanic." 
Mr.  Donelly  said  this  with  a  composure  that 
quite  startled  me.  "But  I  can  feel,  too,  for 
Lady  de  Bougainville,  who,  I  suppose,  belongs 
to  the  aristocratic  class,  and  is  well  on  in  years 
besides.  It  must  be  very  trying  to  her  preju- 
dices—  I  beg  your  pardon,  her  opinions  —  to 
have  to  put  up  with  many  things  of  our  mod- 
ern time,  which  are  nevertheless  quite  inevita- 
ble, as  they  form  part  of  the  necessary  progress 
of  the  world." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I,  "but  I  did  not  wish  a 
sermon."  Certainly  not  from  a  mechanic's  son, 
I  was  just  on  the  point  of  adding,  with  that  bit- 
ter little  tongue  of  mine ;  but  when  I  looked  at 
the  young  man,  something  in  his  frank  honesty, 
combined  with  a  way  he  had  of  putting  unpleas- 
ant ti-uths  in  the  least  unpleasant  manner,  and 
of  never  saying  a  rough  word  where  a  smooth 
one  would  do,  disarmed  me.  Ay,  even  though 
he  was  an  Irishman,  had  an  Irish  accent,  and 
an  Irish  Avay  with  him,  not  exactly  "blarney," 
but  that  faculty  which  both  French  and  Irish 
have  of  turning  toward  you  the  sunshiny  side 
of  the  plum — oiling  the  wheels  of  life  so  as  to 
make  them  run  easily  and  without  grating. 
And  when  the  plum  is  thoroughly  ripe,  and 
the  machinery  sound  and  good,  what  harm? 
As  Lady  de  Bougainville  once  said  to  me, 
"You  English  are  very,  very  good;  would  it 
cost  you  much  to  be  a  little  more  what  we 
French  call  agr€ahle  f 

He  was  decidedly  agreeable,  both  in  the 
French  and  English  sense,  this  Mr.  Donelly; 
and  before  we  parted  he  made  me  a  promise — 
very  earnestly,  too — that  he  would  use  his  best 
endeavors  with  his  principal  to  avoid  all  annoy- 
ance to  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

When  I  told  her  this  she  shook  her  head. 
"  Was  he  an  Irishman,  my  dear  ?" 

"I  think  so." 

"  Then  trust  him  not ;"  and  she  grew  a  shade 
paler,  and  set  her  lips  together  in  their  hardest 
line.  "I  say  nothing  against  Irishwomen — 
look  at  my  Bridget,  for  instance — but  I  believe 
it  to  be  almost  impossible  for  an  Irishman  either 
to  speak  the  truth  or  keep  a  promise." 

Is  that  quite  just?  thought  I,  and  should 
have  said  so — for  I  never  was  afraid  of  speak- 
ing my  pnind  to  her  now ;  she  liked  me  all  the 
better  for  it — but  by  this  time  I  had  heard  a 


good  deal,  and  guessed  more,  of  her  history, 
and  knew  from  what  a  bitter  soil  this  rank 
growth  had  sprung ;  so  I  held  my  tongue.  Was 
it  for  me  to  begin  to  lesson  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville? 

Only,  with  my  strong  resistance  to  injustice, 
even  though  it  were  hers,  I  took  some  precau- 
tion against  the  fulfillment  of  her  prophecy, 
and  also  against  her  being  troubled  in  any  way 
by  the  intrusive  house.  I  got  my  father  to  go 
and  speak  to  the  owner  himself,  who  was  of 
course  his  parishioner,  about  it.  And  this  re- 
sulted in  more  than  1  intended  ;  for  in  the  great 
dearth  of  educated  and  companionable  men  in 
Brierley,  my  father  and  the  architect,  who  was 
lodging  in  the  village,  struck  up  an  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  one  day  Mr.  Donelly  was  actually 
invited  to  tea,  entirely  without  my  knowledge 
— indeed  I  was  much  annoyed  at  it  at  the  time, 
and  complained  bitterly  to  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville at  having  to  entertain  a  mere  mechanic's 
son. 

"You  terrible  little  Tory,"  said  she;  "but 
you  will  grow  wiser  in  time.  Is  he  an  honest 
man's  son  ?  For  that  is  the  real  question  al- 
ways: and  yet  not  always;  good  fruit  some- 
times springs  from  a  worthless  tree.  Still  it  is 
a  great  mystery,  my  dear,  a  great  mystery," 
continued  she,  falling  into  that  tone  of  gentle 
moralizing,  which  was  not  unnatural  at  her  age, 
when  life's  doing  is  all  done,  and  its  placid 
thinking  alone  remains.  But  she  seemed  to 
dislike  both  thinking  and  speaking  of  this  Mr. 
Donelly ;  I  well  knew  why,  and  so  I  ceased  to 
refer  to  him  any  more. 

Of  which,  by-and-by,  I  was  only  too  glad. 
Let  me,  without  either  sentiment  or  egotism, 
get  over  as  fast  as  I  can  the  next  event  in  my 
quiet  life — a  life  which,  looked  back  on  now, 
seems  so  perfect,  that  a  whole  year  was  but  as 
one  long  sunshiny  day. 

Mr.  Donelly  came  to  our  house  very  often, 
and — just  as  I  used  to  come  to  Brierley  Hall — 
on  every  excuse  he  could.  My  father  liked 
him.  So,  in  degree,  did  I.  That  is,  I  thought 
him  very  honest,  kind,  and  intelligent,  and  was 
grateful  to  him  for  taking  such  pains  to  gratify 
and  amuse  my  father.  That  was  all.  As  to 
his  thinking  of  me,  in  any  way  but  the  merest 
civility,  I  never  suspected  it  for  a  moment. 
Otherwise,  I  should  have  kept  out  of  his  way,  and 
thereby  saved  myself  many  a  conscience-smite 
— the  innocent  pangs  that  any  girl  must  feel 
when  she  has  unwittingly  made  a  man  misera- 
ble. One  day,  meeting  me  in  the  soft  August 
twilight,  as  I  was  walking  home  from  the  Hall, 
having  staid  later  than  my  wont — for  she  was 
not  well,  my  dear  old  lady;  I  was  very  sad 
about  her — he  joined  me,  and  told  me  he  was 
summoned  away  that  night,  probably  to  go 
abroad,  on  some  work  he  had  long  been  seek- 
ing, and  would  I  "remember"  him  until  he 
came  back  ?  I  was  so  little  aware  of  his  mean- 
ing that  I  only  laughed  and  said,  "Yes,  that  I 
will,  and  recommend  you  too,  as  the  very  best 
architect  I  know."     And  this  unhappAspeech 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


165 


MB.  DONBLLY's  WOOINO. 


brought  about  what,  he  said,  he  had  not  other- 
wise meant  to  tell  me  until  he  had  a  home  to 
oflFer  "worthy  of  me" — that  he  wished  me  to 
share  it. 

I  suppose  men  mostly  say  the  same  things : 
thank  God,  I  never  had  but  one  man's  wooing, 
and  that  was  sad  enough  to  hear ;  because,  of 
course,  as  I  did  not  love  him,  I  could  only  tell 
him  so ;  and  refuse  him  point-blank,  which  now 
I  fear  was  done  ungently  and  with  some  dis- 
dainful words,  for  I  was  taken  by  surprise. 
Marriage  was  not  much  in  my  plan  of  life  at 
all ;  my  own  home  experience  did  not  incline 
me  in  its  favor ;  while  at  the  Hall,  Bridget  in- 
veighed perpetually  against  the  whole  race  of 
men ;  and  her  mistress  kept  on  the  subject  a 
total  silence.  If  I  ever  did  think  of  being  mar- 
ried, it  was  to  some  imaginary  personage  like 
the  preux  chevaliers  of  old.  Though,  I  was 
forced  to  confess,  no  medieval  knight  could 
have  behaved  himself  more  knightly,  with  more 
true  courtesy,  consideration,  and  respect,  than 
did  this  builder  of  houses,  this  overseer  of  brick- 
layers and  carpenters,  who  perhaps  had  been 
one  of  them  himself  not  so  many  years  ago. 
Ay,  even  when  I  said  my  last  decisive  word, 


looking  firmly  in  his  face,  for  I  wished  him  to 
make  no  possible  mistake.  He  was  excessive- 
ly pale,  but  he  pleaded  no  more,  and  took  his 
pain  with  such  manly  courage  that  I  felt  almost 
sorry  for  him,  and  in  some  roundabout  way 
begged  his  pardon. 

*' You  need  not,"  he  answered,  holding  our 
wicket  gate  open  for  me  to  pass  in.  "A  wo- 
man's love  is  quite  free,  but  so  is  a  man's. 
You  are  not  to  blame  for  having  refused  me, 
any  more  than  I  am  for  having  asked  you.  I 
shall  never  ask  you  again,  but  I  shall  love  you 
to  the  day  of  my  death." 

So  we  parted ;  and  I  saw  and  heard  no  more 
of  him.  I  never  told  any  body  what  had  hap- 
pened ;  it  was  only  my  own  aftair,  and  it  was 
better  forgotten.  Nor,  after  the  first  week  or 
so,  did  I  think  much  about  it.  except  that  when 
I  was  tired  or  sorrowful,  or  the  troubles  of  life 
came  upon  me,  as  they  did  just  then,  thick  and 
fast — though,  as  they  only  concerned  my  father 
and  me,  and  not  this  history,  I  need  not  specify 
them — Mr.  Donelly's  voice  used  to  come  back 
to  me,  ahnost  like  a  voice  in  a  dream,  saying  his 
farewell  words,  "  I  shall  love  you  to  the  day  of 
mv  death."     And  sometimes,  looking  in  her 


V 


166 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


calm  aged  face,  far,  far  beyond  all  youth's 
passions  and  turmoils  and  cares,  I  wondered 
whether  any  body — that  Irish  husband,  for  in- 
stance, who,  Bridget  hinted,  had  made  her  so 
miserable — had  ever  said  the  same  words,  with 
the  same  determination  and  sincerity  of  tone, 
to  Lady  de  Bougainville. 

Those  years,  which  changed  me  from  a  girl 
into  a  woman,  made  in  her  the  change  natural 
at  her  time  of  life.  She  had  none  of  Mrs. 
Thrale's  "three  warnings;"  her  "messages 
from  home"  came  still,  but  softly,  tenderly,  as 
such  messages  should  come  to  one  whose  life 
was  so  valuable  to  every  body  about  her,  so  in- 
expressibly precious,  as  she  saw,  to  me.  Also, 
my  love  seemed  to  develop  in  her  another  qual- 
ity, which  Bridget  said  had  not  been  shown 
since  she  was  a  girl — wife  and  mother,  but  girl 
still — in  Merrion  Square  ;  that  charming  gaiete 
de  coeur^  essentially  French,  which  made  her 
conversation  and  her  company  like  that  of  a 
woman  of  thirty  rather  than  seventy.  And 
when  I  was  with  her  I  often  forgot  entirely  how 
old  she  was,  and  reckoned  on  her  future  and 
my  own  as  if  they  had  been  one  and  the 
same. 

For  we  were  now  permanently  settled,  my 
Either  being  no  longer  curate,  but  rector  of 
Brierley.  One  of  Lady  de  Bougainville's  old 
acquaintances,  belonging  to  the  Turberville 
family,  an  Honorable  somebody,  who  wrote  her 
sometimes  the  most  cordial  and  even  affection- 
ate letters,  happened  to  be  in  the  Ministry,  and 
the  living  was  a  Crown  living ;  so  we  always 
suspected  her  of  having  some  hand  in  its  dis- 
posal. But  she  never  owned  this,  nor  any  other 
kind  act  that  it  was  possible  to  do  in  secret. 

This  change  made  mine,  as  well  as  my  fa- 
ther's, the  busiest  life  possible.  Nay,  in  our 
large  and  growing  parish,  with  my  youth  and 
his  delicate  health,  we  might  both  have  broken 
down  under  our  work,  save  for  our  neighbor 
at  the  Hall.  Oh,  the  blessing  of  riches,  guided 
by  a  heart  as  warm  as  youth,  and  a  judgment 
wide  and  clear  with  the  wisdom  and  experience 
of  age ! 

"And  are  you  not  happy  in  all  this?"  I 
once  said  to  her.  "  Is  it  not  well  to  have  lived 
on  to  such  a  blessed  and  blessing  old  age  ?" 

She  answered,  "Yes." 

She  was  a  little  less  active  now  than  she  used 
to  be ;  had  to  give  up  one  by  one,  sometimes 
with  a  slight  touch  of  restlessness  and  regret, 
some  .of  her  own  peculiar  pleasures,  such  as  the 
walk  before  breakfast,  and  the  habit  of  doing 
every  thing  for  herself,  not  asking,  nay,  often 
disliking,  either  help  or  the  appearance  of  help, 
from  those  about  her.  But  she  let  me  help  her 
now  a  little.  And  sometimes,  when  I  fetched 
her  her  bonnet  or  fastened  her  shawl,  she  would 
say  to  me,  smiling,  "  My  dear,  I  think  I  am 
something  like  the  Apostle  Peter :  when  I  was 
young,  I  girded  myself  and  walked  whither  I 
would;  now  I  am  old,  another  girds  me  and 
leads  me  whither  I  would  not.  No,  nobody 
could  do  that;"  and,  half  laughing,  she  drew 


herself  up  erect.      "I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  a 
pretty  strong  will  to  the  last." 

Now  and  then  people  said  to  me — those  who 
saw  her  at  church,  and  the  poor  folk  who  came 
about  the  Hall— that  "my  lady"  was  looking 
much  older.  But  I  could  not,  and  I  would  not 
see  it.  Whatever  change  came,  was  so  grad- 
ual, so  beautiful,  like  the  fading  of  that  Vir- 
ginian creeper  which  we  admired  every  autumn 
upon  the  walls  of  her  house,  that  it  seemed  only 
change,  not  decay.  And  every  feebleness  of 
hers  was  as  dear  to  me  as  the  helplessness  of  a 
child  is  to  its  young  mother,  who,  the  more  she 
has  to  do  for  it,  loves  it  the  better. 

Oh,  why  is  it  not  always  thus  ?  Why  can 
not  we  all  so  live  ?  I  think  we  could  if  we 
tried — that  we  may  be  as  much  missed  at  eighty 
as  at  eighteen. 

Though  herbodily  activity  was  circumscribed. 
Lady  de  Bougainville's  mental  energy  was  as 
keen  as  ever.  She  and  my  father  laid  their 
heads  together  over  all  the  remediable  evils  in 
the  parish,  and  some  which  had  hitherto  been 
thought  irremediable :  one  I  must  name,  for  it 
brought  about  another  event,  which  I  had  good 
need  to  remember. 

One  day  my  father  came  to  the  Hall  in  per- 
fect despair  upon  an  old  grievance  of  his,  the 
want  of  house  accommodation  for  his  poor. 

"What  chance  have  I?"  said  he,  half  in  an- 
ger, half  in  grief.  "  How  can  I  take  care  of 
my  people's  souls  when  nobody  looks  after  their 
bodies?  What  use  is  it  to  preach  to  them  in 
the  pulpit  and  leave  tracts  at  their  doors,  and 
expect  them  to  be  clean  and  tidy,  honest  and 
virtuous,  when  they  are  packed  together  like 
herrings  in  a  barrel,  in  dwellings  ill-drained, 
ill- ventilated,  with  the  damp  running  in  streams 
down  the  walls,  and  the  rain  dropping  through 
the  holes  in  the  roof?  For  the  old  houses  go 
unrepaired,  and  the  new-built  ones,  few  as  tljey 
are,  are  almost  worse  than  the  old.  I  declare 
to  you  I  would  not  put  an  old  horse  or  even  a 
dog  of  mine  into  some  I  have  seen  to-day." 

"Will  nobody  build?"  asked  quietly  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

"I  have  put  that  question  to  every  land- 
owner in  the  place,  and  they  all  say  '  No ;  '\i. 
would  increase  the  poor-rates.  Besides,  cot- 
tage property  is  sunk  capital;  it  never  pays.' 
Yet  they  go  on  living  in  their  '  elegant  man- 
sions' and  their  'commodious  villa  residences.' 
Oh  you  rich !  you  rich !  how  you  do  grind  the 
faces  of  the  poor!" 

"Hush,  father,"  I  whispered,  for  in  his  ex- 
citement he  had  quite  forgotten  himself.  But 
Lady  de  Bougainville  only  smiled. 

"You  are  right,  Mr.  Weston;  that  is,  right 
in  the  main,  though  there  may  be  something  to 
be  said  on  the  opposite  side — there  usually  is. 
But  I  thank  you  for  speaking  so  plainly ;  tell 
me  a  little  more." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  told.  It  is  a  hope- 
less matter.  Oh  that  I  had  an  acre  of  ground, 
or  a  thousand  pounds  in  my  pocket,  that  I 
might  build,  if  only  three  cottages,  where  decent 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


167 


working-men  might  live  and  work !  For  chari- 
ty begins  in  small  things,  and,  to  my  thinking, 
it  generally  begins  at  home." 

Again  she  said,  "  You  are  right,"  and  sat  for 
some  minutes  thinking ;  then  called  me.  "  Win- 
ny,  how  much  was  that  money  you  put  into  the 
bank  for  me  yesterday  ? — I  forget :  I  am  afraid  I 
often  do  forget  things  now." 

I  told  her  the  sura,  a  good  large  one,  which 
had  given  her  much  pleasure  at  the  time,  for  it 
was  a  debt  unexpectedly  repaid.  I  had  en- 
treated her  to  spend  it  on  building  a  new  con- 
servatory, for  the  old  one  was  too  far  from  the 
house  in  wintry  weather,  and  she  was  so  fond 
of  her  flowers.  But  she  had  pertinaciously  re- 
fused. "What,  build  at  my  age,  and  for  my 
own  pleasure  ?  Let  us  think  of  something  else 
to  do.  Opportunity  will  soon  come."  And  it 
did. 

"  Mr.  Weston,  I  thank  you  for  putting  this 
into  my  mind — for  showing  me  what  I  ought  to 
do.  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it  before. 
But,"  and  she  sighed,  "I  have  been  thinking 
too  much  and  doing  too  little  this  many  a  year. 
Well,  one  lives  aad  learns — lives  and  learns. 
If  you  like,  you  shall  have  that  two-acre  field 
behind  my  stable -yard,  and  Winny  will  pay 
you  that  money ;  she  knows  all  about  it ;  so  that 
you  may  build  your  cottages  at  once." 

I  knew  better  than  my  father  how  costly  the 
gift  was,  to  her  who  was  so  tenacious  of  her 
privacy,  who  liked  to  hide  behind  her  park  and 
trees,  keeping  the  whole  world  at  bay :  but  hav- 
ing once  decided,  the  thing  was  over  and  done. 
She  entered  into  the  scheme  with  all  the  ener- 
gy of  her  nature ;  and  wished  to  set  about  it 
immediately,  "for,"  she  said,  "at  my  age  I 
have  no  time  to  lose."  Lengthy  was  the  dis- 
cussion betweea  her  and  my  delighted  father 
how  best  to  carry  out  their  plans,  doing  most 
good  and  avoiding  most  evil. 

"  For  the  gi-eatest  evil  in  this  sort  of  scheme," 
she  said,  "is  making  it  a  matter  of  charity. 
Remember,  Mr.  Weston,  ray  tenants  must  pay 
me  their  rent.  I  shall  exact  it  punctually,  or  I 
shall  turn  them  out.  I  ara,  or  I  have  some- 
times been  called,  a  hard  woman :  that  is,  I 
help  only  those  who  help  themselves,  or  those 
whom  Providence  forbids  to  help  themselves. 
The  intermediate  class,  who  can  help  themselves 
and  will  not,  the  idle  spendthrift,  the  willing 
borrower,  the  debtor  who  is  as  bad  as  a  thief, 
against  tliese  I  set  my  face  as  a  flint.  For  them 
expect  of  me  no  mercy  ;  I  have  none." 

As  she  spoke  the  fierce  flash,  so  seldom  seen 
now,  came  again  into  her  eyes.  She  was  much 
agitated ;  more  so  than  the  matter  in  question 
required,  and  my  father  regarded  her  in  some 
sui-prise.  Then  he  seemed  all  at  once  to  re- 
member, and  said,  gently,  "  No,  you  will  not  be 
tried.  There  is  justice  in  what  you  say.  '  He 
that  will  not  work  neither  shall  he  eat,'  for  he 
would  only  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of 
those  that  do  work.  It  is  God  alone  who  is  so 
perfect  that  Ho  can  send  His  sun  to  shine  upon 
both  the  evil  and  the  good." 


Lady  de  Bougainville  was  silent ;  but  a  slight 
blush,  so  pretty  in  an  old  lady,  grew  upon  her 
cheek,  and  she  looked  at  my  father  with  that 
tenderness  with  which  she  often  regarded  him, 
even  when  doctrinally  she  differed  from  him 
most. 

They  went  on  planning,  and  I  reading ; 
though  my  mind  often  wandered  away,  as  young 
folks'  will.  I  do  not  know  if  the  mention  of 
building  houses  carried  it  away  in  any  particu- 
lar direction,  but  I  was  considerably  startled 
when  I  heard  from  my  father's  lips  a  certain 
name  which  had  been  unuttered  among  us  for 
more  than  two  years. 

"  Winny,  have  you  any  idea  what  has  become 
of  that  young  man — Donnell,  wasn't  his  name? 
no,  Donelly — who  built  Mr.  Jones's  house  ?" 

"  No,"  I  said,  feeling  hot  all  over,  and  thank- 
ful it  was  twilight. 

"  Because,  Lady  de  Bougainville,  he  would 
be  the  very  man  to  design  your  cottages.  He 
was  full  of  the  subject.  Sprung  from  the  peo- 
ple, he  knew  all  about  them.  And  he  was  so 
clever,  so  honest,  so  conscientious.  Winny,  do 
try  to  think  how  we  could  get  at  him." 

"He  went  abroad,"  I  said. 

"  But  he  may  be  back  by  this  time,  and 
Jones  might  know  his  address.  In  any  case  I 
should  like  to  hear  of  him  again — such  a  fine 
young  fellow.  And  a  rising,  not  a  risen  man, 
which  you  know  you  would  like  best,  Lady  de 
Bougainville." 

Here  was  a  predicament !  To  explain  the 
whole  truth,  and  hinder  a  young  man's  obtain- 
ing employment  because  he  had  once  dared  to 
make  love  to  me ;  the  thing  was  ridiculous  I 
And  yet  to  have  him  coraing  here,  to  meet  him 
again,  as  I  raust,  for  I  was  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville's right  hand  in  every  thing  ;  what  should  I 
do  ?  While  I  sat  considering,  whether  for  half 
a  rainute  or  half  an  hour  I  knew  not,  being  so 
painfully  confused,  the  decision  was  taken  out 
of  my  hands.  Lady  de  Bougainville,  in  her 
quigk  mode  of  settling  things — she  never  "let 
grass  grow  under  her  feet" — rang  the  bell. 

"Take  my  card  across  to  Mr.  Jones  and  say 
I  should  be  much  obliged  if  he  would  write  on 
it  the  address  of  his  architect,  Mr.  Donelly." 

Well !  it  was  she  who  did  it,  she  and  Fate ; 
I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter,  and  whether  I  was 
glad  or  sorry  for  it  I  did  not  quite  know. 

Nor  did  I  when,  two  days  after,  Lady  de 
Bougainville  told  me  she  had  had  a  letter  from 
him. 

"A  capital,  sensible, practical  letter;  you  can 
read  it,  my  dear.  And  he  loses  no  time  too, 
which  I  like.  He  says  he  will  be  down  here  in 
an  hour  from  now.  I  suppose  I  must  see  him 
myself — and  yet — " 

She  was  visibly  nervous — had  been  so  all  the 
morning,  Bridget  said  ;  and  no  wonder.  "  My 
lady  has  not  had  a  stranger  in  the  house  for 
twenty — no,  it's  five-and-twenty  years." 

A  stranger  and  an  Irishman ;  which  latter 
fact  seemed  to  recur  to  Lady  de  Bougainville, 
and  haunt  her  uncomfortably  till  the  minute 


168 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


Mr.  Donelly  was  announced.  Then,  repeating 
to  herself,  "This  is  unjust — unjust,"  she  rose 
from  her  chair,  and  taking  my  arm  ("You  will 
come  too,"  she  had  said;  "I  dislike  strangers"), 
she  crossed  with  feebler  steps  than  usual  the 
hall,  and  ascended  the  beautiful  staircase  to  the 
tapestry  chamber.  There,  looking  grayer  and 
more  shadowy  than  ever  in  the  dimness  of  the 
rainy  morning,  the  painted  knights  and  ladies 
reined  in  their  faded  steeds,  and  the  spectral 
Columbus  pointed  out  forever,  to  an  equally 
ghostlv  Queen  Isabella,  his  discovery  of  the 
New  World. 

Standing  beneath  it — investigating  it  appar- 
ently with  the  keenness  of  a  young  man  to 
whom  the  whole  world  was  new,  with  every 
thing  in  it  to  win — stood  Edward  Donelly. 

He  was  a  good  deal  altered — older,  graver, 
browner;  but  it  was  the  same  face — pleasant, 
honest,  kind.  I  did  not  like  to  look  at  it  much, 
but  merely  bowed — as  he  did  likewise,  without 
oflFering  to  shake  hands  with  me — and  then  I 
crept  away  into  the  farthest  window-seat  I  could 
find. 

Thence  I  watched  him  and  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville as  they  stood  talking  together,  for  they  fell 
into  conversation  almost  immediately.  At  first 
it  was  about  the  tapestry,  which  he  excessively 
admired,  and  she  took  him  round  to  examine, 
piece  by  piece,  before  she  entered  into  business 
talk  at  all.  Then  they  sat  down  opposite  to 
one  another,  and  launched  into  the  great  cot- 
tage question  at  once. 

She  liked  him,  I  could  see,  even  though  the 
Irish  accent  seemed  now  and  then  to  make  her 
wince,  and  bring  a  grave,  sad,  absent  look  to 
her  dear  face ;  until  some  word  of  his,  wise  and 
generous,  honest  and  manly — and  the  subject  in 
hand  called  out  a  good  many  of  the  like — made 
her  turn  back  to  him,  inquisitively,  but  not  un- 
kindly, and  listen  once  more.  He  had  a  good 
deal  to  say,  and  he  said  it  well ;  earnestly  too, 
as  if  his  whole  heart  were  in  it.  His  energy 
and  enthusiasm  seemed  not  to  displease  her, 
but  rather  to  arouse  in  her  a  certain  sympathy, 
reminding  her  of  something  which  had  once 
been  in  herself,  but  was  no  longer. 

They  talked,  I  think,  for  nearly  two  hours ; 
by  that  time  the  matter  was  quite  settled ;  and 
he  departed. 

"Yes,  I  like  him,"  she  said,  when  he  was 
gone ;  and  he  lingered  not  a  minute  after  their 
business  talk  was  ended.  "  Your  father  was 
right ;  I  will  trust  Mr.  Donelly,  though  he  is  an 
Irishman." 

So  he  came,  all  that  spring,  whenever  sent 
for,  and  oftener  when  necessary,  to  Brierley 
Hall.  Never  to  Brierley  Rectory.  My  father's 
cordially  given  invitations  were  as  cordially  but 
invariably  declined.  When  he  and  I  chanced 
to  meet,  his  manner  was  distant,  courteous,  yet 
so  self-possessed  that  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
he  had  not  forgotten  all  about  that  painful  lit- 
tle episode,  and  whether  it  was  necessary  for 
me  to  keep  so  carefully  out  of  his  way.  He 
seemed  to  be  absorbingly  full  of  his  work — per- 


haps also  he  was  married.  Should  I  have  been 
glad  to  hear  he  was  married?  I  dare  not  tell. 
Nay,  had  she,  who  was  my  visible  conscience, 
and  before  M'hom  I  often  now  felt  a  sad  hypo- 
crite— had  Lady  de  Bougainville  herself  asked 
me  the  question,  I  could  not  have  told. 

But  she  asked  me  no  questions  at  all ;  ap- 
parently never  thought  about  me,  being  so  en- 
grossed in  her  cottages.  They  grew  day  by 
day  under  our  eyes,  as  fast  as  a  child  or  any 
other  living  thing,  and  she  took  as  much  pleas- 
ure in  them.  For  they  were,  as  she  sometimes 
said,  not  dull  dead  bricks  and  mortar,  but  tan- 
gible blessings,  and  would  be  so  to  many  after 
she  was  gone.  To  make  them  such,  she  en- 
tered, in  concert  with  Mr.  Donelly,  into  the 
dryest  details — saw  that  windows  would  open 
and  doors  shut — that  walls  were  solid  and  roofs 
substantial — that  the  poor  man  should  have, 
according  to  his  needs,  as  many  comforts  as 
the  rich. 

"I  don't  expect  to  gain  much  by  my  invest- 
ment," she  said  to  her  aixhitect  one  day,  "but 
I  hope  not  to  lose.  For  I  mean,  as  you  say, 
to  do  nothing  for  mere  charity.  The  honest, 
steady,  deserving,  who  pay  me  their  rent  regu- 
larly, shall  be  made  as  happy  as  I  can  make 
them  ;  the  drunken,  idle,  and  reckless  may  go. 
Mercy  to  them  is  injustice  to  the  rest." 

"I  know  that,"  he  answered.  "And  yet," 
turning  to  her  as  she  stood,  and  looking  right 
in  her  face  with  his  honest  eyes,  "if  things 
came  to  the  worst,  in  you,  of  all  others,  I  think 
would  be  found  that  charity  which  'suffereth 
long,  and  is  kind.'" 

They  often  talked  on  this  wise,  on  other  than 
mere  business  topics ;  and  I  stood  listening ; 
quite  apart,  perhaps  even  a  little  jealous,  yet 
not  altogether  miserable.  One  likes  to  feel 
that  a  man.  who  has  once  cared  for  one  is  not, 
at  any  rate,  a  man  to  be  ashamed  of. 

It  was  on  this  day,  if  I  remember  right — 
when  they  had  talked  until  he  had  missed  his 
train — that  Lady  de  Bougainville  first  invited 
Mr.  Donelly  to  lunch.  What  made  her  do  it 
I  can  not  guess,  for  it  was  twenty  years  and 
more  since  any  guest,  save*myself,  had  taken  a 
meal  at  her  table.  He  accepted,  though  with 
hesitation ;  and  we  found  ourselves  sitting  all 
three  in  the  cedar  parlor,  and  doing  our  best 
to  talk  unconstrainedly.  She,  most ;  though  I 
saw  by  her  face — the  expression  of  which  I 
knew  so  well — that  every  word  was  painful  to 
her,  and  that  she  would  have  rescindedUhe  in- 
vitation if  she  could. 

Nevertheless,  when  lunch  was  announced, 
she,  with  a  smile  of  half  apology  to  me,  took 
the  arm  of  her  guest,  and  proceeded  to  the 
dining-room. 

I  like  to  remember  these  little  things,  and 
how  I  followed  those  two  as  they  walked  slow- 
ly across  the  hall  between  the  green  scagliola 
pillars.  A  goodly  pair  they  were — for  she  was, 
proportionately,  almost  as  tall  as  lie,  and  as 
upright.  They  might  have  been  mother  and 
son,  or  grandmother  and  grandson  ;  had  her 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


169 


elder  children  lived,  she  would  probably  have 
had  a  grandson  just  his  age.  I  wondered,  did 
she  think  of  this  ?  Or,  when  she  took  the  head 
of  her  long  table — with  him  and  me  on  either 
side,  for  the  seat  at  the  foot  was  never  filled — 
did  she  recall  the  days  when  the  empty  board 
was  full,  the  great  silent  room  noisy  with  laugh- 
ter? But  whatever  she  felt,  she  showed  no- 
thing. I  can  see  her  this  minute,  sitting  grave 
and  sweQt  in  her  place — which  it  had  pleased 
Heaven  she  should  occupy  so  long — leaning 
over  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  two,  so  late- 
ly strangers,  and  talking — as  she  might  have 
leaned  and  talked  to  us  out  of  the  other  world, 
to  which  it  often  seemed  as  if  she  already  half 
belonged. 

Mr.  Donelly  had  the  most  of  her  talk,  of 
course ;  and  it  ranged  over  all  subjects — ex- 
cept "  shop" — which  for  the  nonce  she  delicate- 
ly ignored.  Close  as  they  were  to  her  heart, 
she  never  once  referied  to  her  cottages.  Her 
conversation  with  him  was  simply  that  of  a 
lady  with  a  gentleman,  who,  however  differing 
from  her  in  opinion — and  he  held  amazingly 
fast  to  his  own — was  a  gentleman,  and  should 
be  treated  as  such.  And  he  treated  her — well, 
I  doubt  if  any  of  the  old  De  Bougainvilles  could 
have  shown  more  chivalric  deference,  more  ten- 
der respect,  than  Mr.  Donelly  always  paid  to 
my  dear  old  lady. 

But  they  fought  a  good  deal,  these  two  can- 
did people  ;  and  at  last,  in  their  lively  battles, 
they  got  upon  a  topic  which  half  frightened  me. 
It  was  about  Mr.  Jones,  the  retired  trades- 
man, from  whom,  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
obnoxious  villa  residences.  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville seemed  most  to  shrink. 

"Nor  do  I  wonder  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Donelly. 
"He  is  a  rough,  coarse,  illiterate  man,  who 
tries  to  hide  his  deficiencies  under  great  show 
of  wealth.  But  he  is  an  honest-meaning  man 
for  all  that,  and  carefully  gives  to  his  children 
the  advantages  he  misses  in  himself.  The  girls 
are  well-educated ;  the  boys  will  all  be  sent  to 
college.  A  generation  hence  the  Joneses  may 
be  a  notable  family ;  they  will  certainly  be  an 
accomplished  and  refined  one." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  think  it  because  I  feel  it.     Yon  will  see." 

"  I  shall  not  see,"  said  Lady  de  Bougainville, 
gently;  "but  I  am  glad  to  believe  it.  In  my 
old  age  I  believe  many  things  which  I  doubted 
when  I  was  young.  And  I  will  believe  this," 
with  one  of  her  slight  bends  of  old-fashioned 
compliment,  "just  because  Mr.  Donelly  says  it." 

The  pretty  civility  was  lost  upon  him.  Alas ! 
he  was  too  much  in  earnest. 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,  Lady  de  Bougainville. 
Do  not  suppose  I  undervalue  birth  or  breeding. 
To  be  well-born  and  gently  nurtured  must  be" 
— here  he  sighed — "  on^  of  the  greatest  bless- 
ings that  can  happen  to  a  man.  But  it  is  only 
a  chance  blessing ;  and  he  to  whose  lot  it  does 
not  fall  must  learn  to  do  without  it.  I  think 
he  can.  Perhaps — or,  at  least,  I  used  to  dream 
so  when  a  boy — perhaps  the  next  best  thing  to 


being  the  descendant  of  an  ancient  and  honora- 
ble family  is  to  be  the  founder  of  one." 

"A  better  thing,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Lady 
de  Bougainville. 

"We  had  risen  from  table,  and  were  standing 
in  the  doorway.  He,  as  he  spoke,  had  drawn 
himself  up  to  every  inch  of  his  excellent  height, 
throwing  his  shoulders  back — a  trick  he  had — 
and  looking  out  half  sadly,  yet  quite  fearlessly, 
as  if  right  into  the  unknown  future,  with  those 
clear  good  eyes  of  his.  She  paused  a  minute, 
met  them,  and  then  for  the  first  time  (they  had 
hitherto  only  bowed,  French  fashion)  she  ex- 
tended to  him  her  hand.  It  was  taken — rev- 
erently, gratefully,  almost  tenderly;  and  they 
again  passed  on  before  me  arm  in  arm  down 
the  long  hall. 

As  they  went  I  overheard — I  hardly  know 
how,  for  it  was  evidently  not  meant  for  me  to 
hear,  only  I  was  so  painfully  alive  to  all  their 
words — the  following  conversation. 

She  said  to  him — apologizing  slightly  for  the 
curiosity  which  an  old  lady  may  show,  not  un- 
gracefully, in  a  young  man's  affairs — "You 
speak  of  founding  a  family :  are  you  married  ?" 

"No." 

"But,  perhaps,  you  expect  to  be?" 

"  I  do  not."  He  hesitated  a  little,  then  add- 
ed :  "  Since  the  matter  concerns  no  one  but  my- 
self, I  will  be  candid  with  you.  I  once  asked 
a  lady,  and  she  refused  me.  I  shall  never  ask 
again.  My  profession  must  be  to  me  in  the 
stead  of  a  wife." 

"  That  is  a  pity.  The  lady  has  had  a  loss ; 
you  would  have  made  a  good  husband." 

"Thank  you." 

They  said  no  more,  and  she  respected  his 
confidence;  for  in  discussing  him  afterward 
with  me,  freely  as  was  her  habit,  this  was  the 
only  part  of  Mr.  Donelly's  conversation  which 
she  omitted  to  speak  of.  But  she  spoke  very 
kindly  of  him ;  and  next  time  he  came  her 
manner  was*  sweet  and  gracious  as  it  had  nev- 
er been  before;  "Because,"  she  said,  "young 
as  he  is,  I  respect  him.  He  has  taught  me  an- 
other of  my  lessons.  Child,  as  I  once  told 
you,  I  think  we  have  never  done  learning." 

Was  I  learning,  too  ?  I  know  not.  I  seemed 
to  live  week  after  week  in  a  curious  sort  of 
dream — sometimes  happy,  sometimes  unhappy 
— in  which  I  was  always  expecting  or  dreading 
something,  and  not  knowing  one  day  what 
might  happen  the  next. 

At  last  something  did  happen,  though  I  was 
ignorant  of  it  at  the  time. 

Mr.  Donelly  was  again  invited  to  lunch  and 
spend  the  day — indeed,  I  had  to  write  the  note 
of  invitation.  Lady  de  Bougainville  just  signing 
it,  as  was  her  way  with  much  of  her  corre- 
spondence now.  For  the  first  time  he  failed 
in  an  appointment,  but  next  day  sent  her  a  let- 
ter, a  rather  long  letter,  which,  instead  of  show- 
ing to  me,  she  put  in  her  pocket,  saying  she 
would  tell  me  about  it  another  time.  That 
time  never  arrived,  though  I  remained  with  her 
till  evening. 


170 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


All  day  she  was  distrait  and  anxious-look- 
ing, falling  into  her  old  moods  of  absence  and 
silence.  Nay,  the  slight  "peculiarities" — lit- 
tle restlessnesses,  obstinacies,  and  irritabilities — 
which  she  had  had  when  first  I  knew  her,  and 
which  had  since  been  smothered  down  into  the 
exceeding  serenity  of  her  lovely  old  age,  re- 
vived again.  That  new,  vivid  interest  of  her 
life,  her  pet  cottages,  seemed  almost  forgot- 
ten, and  she  kept  dwelling  continually  upon 
things  long  gone  by. 

It  was  that  day  she  told  me,  for  the  first 
time,  the  story  of  her  seven  years'  secret,  and 
how  much  the  keeping  of  it  had  cost  her. 

"Not  that  I  regret  any  thing,  my  dear,  or 
doubt  that  I  was  right  in  keeping  it.  But  even 
a  righteous  secret  is  a  heavy  burden,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  all  who  have  to  bear  it," 

She  looked  at  me  and  looked  away,  then  re- 
ferred to  herself  again,  and  began  speaking  of 
her  early  poverty,  and  of  other  portions  of  her 
life  at  Ditchley,  after  a  fashion  that  she  had 
never  done  before,  half  accounting  for  this  by 
saying  that  I  was  not  a  child  now,  and  that  she 
liked  to  talk  of  the  past  to  me,  if  I  did  not 
mind. 

"I  had  no  youth  myself,  you  know,  I  mar- 
ried so  early.  Early  marriages  are  not  always 
safe  things  ;  nay,  as  Bridget  would  tell  you — a 
thorough  raisogamist  is  poor  Bridget ! — all  mar- 
riages are  a  great  risk.  My  wonder  is,  not 
that  they  are  sometimes  unhappy,  but  that  they 
are  ever  happy  at  all.  I  should  counsel  no 
young  girl  to  change  her  state  unless  she  thor- 
oughly knows,  and  deeply  loves,  the  man  she 
marries  ;  and" — patting  my  cheek — "  I  should 
be  so  sorry  to  see  any  trouble  come  to  my  little 
Winifred,  that  I  am  glad  she  cares  for  no  man, 
and  will  not  marry  just  yet,  perhaps  never  at  all." 

"  Never  at  all !"  I  cried,  with  the  utmost  sin- 
cerity, believing  I  could  love  no  man  alive  as  I 
loved  her  who  bent  over  me.  Her  dear  old  face 
grew  peaceful  again  and  tender,  with  the  ten- 
derness that  only  strong  natures  know.  She 
smiled,  and  went  on  talking  in  a  desultory  way ; 
chiefly  about  herself,  betraying  rather  than  con- 
fessing how  bright  her  girlish  dreams  had  been, 
and  how  they  had  melted  away  like  morning 
clouds ;  and  she  had  to  take  up  the  fragments 
of  her  broken  life,  and  carry  it  on  through  rain 
and  storm,  heat  and  frost,  till  she  came,  a  lone- 
ly old  woman,  to  the  evening  gray. 

"No,  not  gray,"  I  said,  "but  a  rosy  sun- 
set, like  that  one" — and  I  pointed  westward, 
whence,  through  all  the  six  windows  of  the 
tapestry  chamber,  streamed  a  flood  of  yellow 
light,  in  which  the  dim  figures  looked  almost 
alive.  "You  are  like  Columbus,  sailing  to- 
ward the  sunset,  and  seeing  it  before  you — oh, 
Sebright!" 

"Yes,  and  when  be  had  sailed  far,  far  west 
—do  you  remember? — and  he  and  his  crew 
were  almost  exhausted,  they  perceived,  a  long 
way  oflf",  across  the  sea,  the  scent  of  the  yet  in- 
visible spice-grounds.  And  they  took  courage, 
for  they  knew  they  were  not  far  from  land." 


She  spoke  half  to  herself,  with  that  wistful 
look,  not  of  this  world  at  all,  in  her  eyes. 
Frightened,  I  clung  to  her,  and  begged  her 
"riot  to  talk  like  that,  for  I  almost  saw  her 
wings  growing."  And  for  days  after  then,  in 
the  anxiety  of  watching  her — for  something  had 
vexed  her,  Bridget  said,  and  brought  on  one  of 
her  brief  attacks  of  illness — I  forgot  all  about 
Mr.  Donelly  and  the  letter. 

Nor  for  some  weeks  did  any  thing  revive  the 
subject.  He  came  but  little  to  the  Hall,  and 
never  when  I  was  there ;  though,  as  I  discov- 
ered accidentally,  he  and  Lady  de  Bougainville 
met  frequently  at  the  now  nearly-finished  cot- 
tages, and  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
"I  never  thought  my  lady  would  have  taken 
so  to  any  young  man,"  commented  Bridget, 
"  and  he  an  Irishman  too.  Well,  wonders  will 
never  cease !"  But  as  my  dear  old  lady  never 
said  a  word  to  me  about  him,  of  course  I  held 
my  tongue. 

Gradually  a  queer  sort  of  jealousy  came  over 
me.  Jealousy  of  whom,  or  why  ?  I  could  not 
clearly  tell — only  it  made  me  thoroughly  mis- 
erable. Something,  or  some  one,  seemed  to 
have  come  between  me  and  her,  whom  I  had 
been  used  to  engross  entirely,  and  I  could  not 
bear  it.  I  never  complained,  being  too  proud 
for  that ;  but  all  the  brightness  seemed  taken 
out  of  my  life.  I  moped  about ;  even  my  fa- 
ther noticed  how  ill  I  was  looking ;  and  then  I 
tried  an  unnatural  cheerfulness.  For  I  felt  not 
only  ill  but  wicked,  hating  every  body  about 
me,  and  most  of  all  myself.  And  I  sufi'ered — 
oh,  how  we  do  suffer  when  we  are  young ! 

Did  Lady  de  Bougainville  notice  it  ?  or  did 
she,  in  her  calm  old  age,  think  nothing  of  it, 
concluding  my  troubles  would  soon  pass  away  ? 
Hers  were  all  over  now.  At  times  I  fancied  so, 
and  almost  envied  her,  and  those  whose  life  is 
completed,  whose  story  is  told — for  whom  no 
more  sorrow  is  possible  any  more. 

"No,"  she  said,  one  day,  when  I  had  crept 
to  her  foot-stool  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  hot 
head,  "it  is  quite  true;  nothing  does  grieve 
me  now — not  very  much.  In  old  age  one  sees 
farther  and  clearer  than  younger  people  do.  It 
is  like  living  on  a  hill-top,  from  whence  the  ups 
and  downs  of  life  appear  in  their  just  propor- 
tions, and  every  way  one  looks  one  beholds,  as 
it  were,  'the  crooked  straight,  and  the  rough 
places  plain.' " 

A  good  deal  more  she  said  to  the  same  ef- 
fect, which  made  me  weep  a  little,  but  not  so 
as  to  trouble  her.  And  we  sat  a  long  time  to- 
gether, feeling  nearer  than  we  had  done  for 
some  time,  when  our  talk  was  broken  in  upon 
by  a  sudden  visitor — Mr.  Donelly. 

Evidently  Lady  de  Bougainville  had  not  ex- 
pected him,  for  she  started  almost  as  much  as 
he  did  at  the  sight  of  her  and  me  together ;  and 
both — nay,  we  all  three — looked  extremely  un- 
comfortable. 

He  apologized  hurriedly  for  his  intrusion, 
saying  it  was  inevitable.  "I  have  got  that 
work  abroad  I  told  you  of,  and  ought  to  be  oflf 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


171 


to  India  in  four  days,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
transfer  to  a  friend  the  completion  of  your  cot- 
tages. They  are  nearly  done  now.  It  is  a  se- 
rious matter  this  engagement ;  it  would  last  ten 
years.     Will  you  set  me  free  to  accept  it  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied.  "  Come  with  me 
into  the  cedar  parlor,  and  explain  all." 

The  explanation  took  very  long,  or  it  seemed 
so.  I  scarcely  stirred  from  my  seat,  I  remem- 
ber, but  stupidly  watched  the  light  fade,  and 
the  merry  spring-birds  drop  into  silence — until 
Lady  de  Bougainville  came  back  and  told  me 
he  was  gone  ;  and  I  recognized  that,  in  all  hu- 
man probability,  I  should  never  see  him  again 
in  this  world.  Never !  since  he  had  only  left  a 
formal  message  of  farewell  to  my  father  and  to 
me.  Lady  de  Bougainville  delivered  it,  and 
then  sat  down,  silent  and  sorry. 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  he  is  gone,"  she  owned. 
*'I  like  him.  Latterly,  I  have  taken  great 
pains  to  make  friends  with  him,  so  as  to 
know  him  well,  and  I  like  him.  He  has  the 
true,  warm  Irish  heart,  and  a  conscience  be- 
sides ;  the  winning  Irish  pleasantness,  and  sin- 
cerity underneath  it.  I  tested  him,  and  he  has 
.  not  disappointed  me.  Nay,  he  has  taught  me 
a  lesson  which,  old  as  I  am,  I  had  need  to 
learn." 

What  it  was  I  did  not  ask;  it  was,  indeed, 
impossible  to  speak,  for  I  began  crying.  She 
drew  my  head  against  her  shoulder.  "Poor 
little  girl!" — then  breathed,  rather  than  whis- 
pered, in  my  ear,  "You  need  tell  me  nothing. 
He  told  me  all!" 

"  Did  he  ?  How  dared  he  ?"  I  cried,  in  hot 
indignation  ;  for  I  was  not  myself,  and  knew 
not  how  1  felt  or  what  I  was  doing.  "  He  has 
told  you,  and  you  think — " 

"I  think  my  little  girl  did  exactly  what  was 
right,  and  so  does  he.  How  could  he  expect 
my  Winifred  to  drop  into  a  man's  mouth  all  in 
a  minute,  like  a  ripe  peach  from  a  wall  ?  He 
was  a  very  foolish  fellow,  and  I  told  him  so. " 

I  was  silent. 

"But  I  also  think,"  she  continued,  gently, 
"  that  he  is  a  very  good  fellow,  generous  and 
faithful,  honest  and  true.  I  have  found  out  all 
about  him,  from  his  birth  upward,  and  found 
out  nothing  ill.  If  you  really  knew  him,  pos- 
sibly you  might  love  him ;  I  don't  say  you 
would,  but  you  might ;  for  he  is  a  man  you 
could  trust — which  is  the  beginning  and  end  of 
all  real  love." 

She  sighed,  and  tried  to  look  into  my  face, 
but  I  hid  it  carefully. 

"  What  is  your  objection  against  him  ?  His 
being  a  working-man's  son  ?" 

"No,  that  would  not  matter,"  said  I,  with  an 
earnestness  that  surprised  myself.  But  I  had 
grown  Ayiser  since  I  had  left  my  teens  behind. 

"  You  are  right,  Winny  :  his  birth  could  not 
matter,  and  ought  not,  of  itself;  for  he  is  thor- 
oughly well  educated  and  refined.  Though,  I 
own,  having  not  quite  got  over  my  class-preju- 
dices, it  might  matter  if  he  had  a  tribe  of  un- 
pleasant relations  belonging  to  him.     But  he 


has  none.  He  is  quite  alone  in  the  world — 
too  much  alone  for  such  a  warm  heart.  And 
he  has  set  it  irretrievably  upon  a  certain  little 
girl  I  know.  I  will  not  urge  you,  Winifred : 
love  must  come  freely,  or  it  is  worthless;  and 
if  you  do  not  love  him,  let  him  go.  He  will 
bear  it  somehow  ;  busy  men  seldom  break  their 
hearts.  Only,  if  he  does  not  mai-ry  you,  I 
think  he  will  never  marry  any  body." 

She  ceased.  The  gentle,  slow  speech — the 
soft,  told  touch  of  the  little  hand,  what  a  con- 
trast to  the  whirl  that  was  going  on  in  my  poor 
heart  and  head,  making  me  feel  as  if  the  room 
were  turning  round  and  round ! 

"  Do  I  wound  or  vex  you,  my  dear,  by  speak- 
ing of  this  ?  Forgive  me  :  it  was  only  because 
you  have  no  mother  to  speak  to ;  a  mother, 
when  she  can  be  trusted,  is  the  best  friend 
always.  I  remember,  my  own  daughter" — 
she  stopped  suddenly :  a  sort  of  convulsion 
passed  over  her  face,  as  if,  even  now,  the  re- 
membrance was  too  bitter  to  bear.  "I  had 
rather  not  tell  you  of  that.  My  daughter  is 
long  since  with  God." 

Yet  no  mother  could  be  more  tender,  more 
sympathizing  than  she  was  with  me,  another 
woman's  child,  with  not  the  slightest  claim  upon 
her — of  blood,  at  least ;  as,  putting  aside  en- 
tirely her  own  past,  she  tried  to  help  me  to  un- 
ravel my  passionate,  troubled  present.  For 
even  then  I  hardly  knew  my  own  heart — was 
cruelly  uncertain  as  to  what  I  had  best  do,  or 
what  I  wished  to  do,  except  to  do  right.  One 
thing  only  I  was  clear  about — my  intense  anxie- 
ty never  to  be  parted  from  her. 

"But  you  must  be  parted  some  time,"  said 
she,  softly ;  "  and  before  I  go,  it  would  be  a 
comfort  to  me  to  give  my  little  girl  into  safe- 
keeping— to  some  one  who  will  take  care  of 
her,  without  tyrannizing  over  her ;  who  is  a 
gentle  and  good  man,  without  being  a  weak 
man.  Child !  if  you  knew  what  it  is  to  have 
the  mere  sham  of  a  husband — the  mockery  of  a 
protector,  against  whom  one  has  to  protect  one's 
self,  and  more  than  one's  self;  above  all,  the 
misery  of  bearing  and  bringing  up  children,  in 
whom  one's  utmost  terror  is  to  see  any  likeness 
to  their  father !  Yet" — here  she  broke  oft"  in  an 
altogether  changed  tone — "yet,  my  dear,  many 
women  have  borne  this.  I  have  seen  several 
instances  of  it  in  my  long  life,  and  I  should  like 
to  be  quite  certain  before  I  die  that  no  such  lot 
will  befall  my  little  Winifred — as  it  never  will 
if  she  marries  Edward  Donelly." 

And  then  she  said  a  good  deal  more  for  him 
(I  find  myself  always  writing  "him"  and  "  her," 
as  if  they  were  the  only  two  people  in  the  world). 
All  her  words  were  true,  and  I  knew  it. 

"  Suppose,"  she  whispered,  at  last,  in  the 
playful  manner  which  sat  so  prettily  upon  her, 
"  that,  instead  of  an  old  woman  making  love  to 
you  by  proxy  in  this  fashion,  the  young  man 
were  to  come  back  and  do  it  himself?" 

"He  can  not,"  I  said,  half  amused  and  yet 
dolefully;  "it  is  quite  too  late.  He  has  gone 
away  forever." 


172 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


"Not — not  exactly,"  and  her  smile  broadened 
into  actual  mischievousness.  "I  told  him  to 
take  a  good  hour's  walk  across  country,  and 
come  here  again  after  I  had  sent  you  away, 
you  obnoxious  little  person,  whom  he  has  been 
so  afraid  of  offending  that  I  have  seen  not  half 
enough  of  him,  to  have  a  quiet  cup  of  tea  and  a 
farewell  chat  with  an  old  lady  whom  I  think  he 
is  rather  fond  of,  and  who  is  never  likely  to  see 
him  again  in  this  world.     Hark !" — 

For  we  heard  a  step  on  the  gravel  belfcw — a 
step  which  could  be  only  a  man's,  and  a  young 
man's — firm  and  strong  like  himself,  and  yet  a 
little  uncertain  too.  I  don't  know  how  or  why, 
but  every  footfall  went  into  my  heart. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  to  go  away  ?  or  shall  I  send 
him  in  here  ?  Choose.  Just  one  word,  my  lit- 
tle Winny !     Yes,  or  No  ?" 

I  did  not  say  either,  but  I  clung  to  her,  sob- 
bing. She  kissed  and  blessed  me,  not  very  far 
from  sobbing  herself,  and  went  away. 

That  evening  two  young  people  instead  of 
one  took  tea  with  Lady  de  Bougainville ;  but 
I  can  not  be  expected  to  remember  much  that 
passed  at  that  memorable  meal.  I  am  afraid 
the  conversation  was  very  desultory,  and  not  in 
the  least  improving.  I  can  only  recall  the  image 
of  her  who  sat  there  at  the  head  of  her  dining- 
table,  for  she  made  it  a  composite  repast — a 
*' hungry"  tea — out  of  compliment  to  a  gentle- 
man who  could  not  be  supposed  to  live  entirely 
upon  love.  She  sat  in  her  pretty  old  lady's 
dress— black  silk  and  pure  white  cambric,  and 
with  her  sweet  old  lady's  face  beaming  down 
upon  us,  with  the  happy  look  that  people  wear 
who  have  helped  to  create  happiness  long  after 
their  own  has  slipped  away. 

My  Ned — we  agreed  between  us  that  I  should 
call  him  Ned  instead  of  Edward,  which  name 
seemed  to  grate  upon  ears  that  we  would  not 
have  wounded  for  the  world — my  Ned  was,  as 
Lady  de  Bougainville  well  knew,  the  most  ac- 
ceptable son-in-law  my  father  could  have  found ; 
especially  as,  not  to  part  me  from  the  two  dear 
ones  who  said  they  could  not  possibly  do  with- 
out me,  we  agreed,  for  the  first  year  or  two,  to 
come  and  live  at  the  Rectory.  Not  without  a 
struggle,  I  think,  on  Ned's  part,  and  the  uncom- 
fortable feeling  of  a  man  who  comes  and  hangs 
up  his  hat  in  his  wife's  father's  house ;  but  still 
my  father  was  such  an  exceptional  person,  that 
it  was  not  really  a  humiliation  or  vexation ;  and 
Edward  Donelly  was  too  honest  a  man  to  care 
for  the  mere  appearance  of  things.  He  says, 
if  he  ever  adopts  a  crest  or  a  motto,  it  shall  be 
this:   "Never  mind  the  outside." 

Of  course  he  did  not  go  to  India.  Putting 
aside  all  other  considerations,  there  happened 
to' be  a  little  girl  at  hand  who  would  rather 
have  been  a  poor  man's  wife  all  her  days  than 
allowed  him  to  risk  health,  life,  and  every  thing 
that  makes  life  dear  and  valuable,  in  the  strug- 
gle after  fortune  that  he  would  have  had  out 
there.  He  declined  the  appointment,  and  has 
never  regretted  doing  so. 

Our  courtship  days  were  not  long;  and  we 


spent  a  good  mtiny  of  them  at  Brierley  Hall, 
often  close  beside  its  dear  mistress.  She  said 
she  did  not  mind  our  love-making;  indeed, 
rather  enjoyed  it,  as  all  the  time  she  had  two 
people  making  love  to  herself!  For  indeed 
Ned  did  it,  in  his  chivalric  way,  quite  as  much 
as  I. 

He  used  to  come  to  Brierley  every  Saturday 
and  stay  till  Monday,  the  only  time  he  could 
spare  from  his  active,  busy  life.  Oh  those  heav- 
enly Sundays !  a  peaceful,  church-going  morn- 
ing, a  long  afternoon  strolling  about  under  the 
cool  green  shadow  of  the  trees,  or  sitting  in  the 
summer-house  by  the  lake ;  whence  we  used  to 
catch  peeps  of  the  house  he  had  built,  which  he 
declared  was  the  best  bit  of  architecture  he  ever 
planned  in  his  life !  Above  all,  those  still  twi- 
lights in  the  tapestry  room ;  for  we  never  left 
her  alone  of  evenings,  but  sat  with  her  and  list- 
ened to  her  talk — charming  as  ever,  fresh  and 
youthful  and  bright.  She  was  more  clever  and 
amusing  by  far  than  I,  and  Ned  once  actually 
acknowledged  this. 

Soon — sooner  than  I  liked ;  but  she  insisted 
upon  it,  saying  she  wished  to  see  it  with  her 
own  eyes — came  our  quiet,  simple  wedding,  at 
which  the  only  festivities  were  a  dinner  to  my 
poor  people  and  a  tea-party  to  my  school-chil- 
dren in  the  grounds  of  the  Hall.  My  father 
married  us ;  and,  seeing  that  it  is  not  defined 
in  the  Prayer-book  whether  a  man  or  a  woman 
should  give  the  bride  away,  Lady  de  Bougain- 
ville undertook  that  office  herself.  I  see  her 
now,  in  her  long,  sweeping  dress  of  gray  silk — 
worn  for  the  first  and  only  time — her  black  vel- 
vet cloak,  and  close  white  crape  bonnet,  under 
which  the  faded  face  looked  beautiful  still.  And 
I  feel  the  touch  of  the  soft,  aged  hand  that  put 
mine  into  the  young  and  strong  one,  which  will 
hold  it  safe  through  life.  Afterward,  as  my 
husband  and  I  walked  down  the  church  to- 
gether, I  noticed — and  wondered  if  she  did  too 
— the  sun  shining  on  the  white  tablet  over  the 
Brierley  Hall  pew,  where,  after  the  long  list  of 
names,  came  the  brief  line,  "They  all  rest 
here!" 

All — all !  Every  one  of  her  own  flesh  and 
blood,  upon  whom  she  had  built  her  hope  and 
joy.  Yet  she  had  lived  on,  and  God  had  given 
her  rest  too — rest  and  peace,  even  in  this  world. 
Ay,  and  blessedness,  poor  childless  mother,  in 
blessing  other  people's  children. 

It  was  her  earnest  wish  that  she  might  live  to 
hold  on  her  knees  a  child  of  mine,  but  we  were 
a  year  and  a  half  without  one ;  and  that  year 
and  a  half  drew  thinner  and  thinner  the  slender 
thread  of  life  which  Time  was  now  winding  up 
so  fast.  She  was  past  eighty — how  much  we 
could  not  tell,  nor  could  she,  for  she  said  she 
had  long  lost  count  of  her  birthdays ;  and  that 
we  should  have  to  guess  at  her  age  when  it  re- 
quired to  be  noted  down — she  did  not  say  where, 
having  quite  given  up  the  habit  she  once  had 
of  constantly  referring  to  her  own  decease. 
And  life,  even  yet,  was  not  only  tolerable,  but 
even  pleasant  to  her :  her  few  bodily  infirmities 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


173 


she  bore  so  sweetly,  and  her  mind  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly youthful  still.  Only  at  times,  when 
recurring  with  a  memory  wonderfully  vivid  to 
events  and  persons  of  her  youth,  now  become 
historical,  she  would  suddenly  recognize  how 
long  she  had  lived,  and  how  she  stood,  a  soli- 
tary landmark  of  gone-by  years,  in  the  midst 
of  this  busy,  bustling  world. 

"  I  scarcely  belong  to  this  age,"  she  would 
say.  "  It  is  almost  time  we  were  away,  I  and 
Bridget,  before  we  give  any  body  trouble." 

And  poor  Bridget,  who  had  far  more  of  the 
weaknesses  of  age — mental  and  bodily — than 
her  mistress,  was  often  tended  and  soothed  by 
her  in  a  half  pathetic,  half  humorous  way,  and 
laughed  at,  not  unkindly,  as  a  "dear,  grum- 
bling old  woman,"  which  made  Bridget  laugh 
too,  and,  recovering  all  her  Irish  good-humor, 
strive  to  bear  more  patiently  the  inevitable  bur- 
den of  old  age,  saying,  as  she  watched  the  be- 
loved figure  moving  about — graceful  even  yet, 
though  active  no  longer — "Sure  enough,  my 
lady  isn't  young  herself,  and  has  a  deal  to  put 
up  with  without  being  bothered  by  me.  But 
she  always  did  take  care  of  every  body  except 
herself." 

And  when  the  time  came  that  I  was  rather 
helpless  too.  Lady  de  Bougainville  turned  the 
tables,  and  insisted  upon  taking  care  of  me. 
She  arranged  my  whole  paraphernalia  of  little 
clothes,  cutting  out  most  of  them  with  her  own 
clever  hands,  which  had  once  fabricated  so 
many.  And  her  latest  skill  and  latest  eye- 
sight were  expended  upon  a  wonderfully-em- 
broidered christening -robe  for  little  "Jose- 
phine," as  we  were  determined  to  call  her  from 
the  very  first,  resolutely  ignoring  the  possibility 
of  her  being  "Joseph."  We  used  to  sit  and 
talk  of  her  for  hours,  until  she  grew  to  us  an 
actual  existence. 

"  I  never  was  a  godmother  in  my  life,"  Lady 
de  Bougainville  said  one  day,  when  we  sat  to- 
gether with  Qur  basket  of  work  between  us. 
"  I  mean  to  be  quite  proud  of  my  god-daughter 
and  name-child.  But  I  shall  not  leave  her  a 
fortune,  you  know  that — neither  her  nor  her 
mother ;  I  shall  only  leave  you  enough  always 
to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,"  and  she  smiled. 
"The  rest  your  husband  must  earn;  he  can, 
and  he  will.  It  does  a  man  good,  too — makes 
twice  a  man  of  him — to  feel  he  is  working  for 
wife  and  child,  and  that  upon  him  rests  the  fu- 
ture of  both.  Mr.  Doiielly  said  so  to  me  only 
yesterday. " 

"Did  he?"  cried  I,  with  my  heart  in  my 
eyes — the  heart  so  hard  to  win ;  but  Ned  had 
it  wholly  now.  "  I  don't  very  much  care  for 
his  making  a  great  fortune,  but  I  know  he  will 
earn  a  great  name  some  of  these  days.  And 
he  is  so  good,  so  good !  Oh,  it's  a  grand  thing 
to  be  every  day  more  and  more  proud  of  one's 
husband !" 

I  had  forgotten  to  whom  I  was  speaking — 
forgotten  the  painted  face  over  the  fire-place 
behind  me — the  poor,  weak,  handsome  face, 
with  its  self-satisfied  smirk,  which,  wherever 


she  sat,  she  never  looked  at,  though  sometimes 
it  haunted  me  dreadfully  still. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  grave,  calm  tone, 
neither  glancing  at  it — though  it  was  just  oppo- 
site to  her — nor  away  from  it.  "  Yes  ;  it  is  a 
good  thing  to  be  proud — as  you  are  justly  proud 
— of  your  husband." 

I  was  silent;  but  I  recognized — I,  a  wife, 
and  nearly  a  mother — as  I  had  never  done  be- 
fore, how  terrible  must  have  been  the  burden 
—the  heaviest  that  can  be  laid  upon  any  wo- 
man— which  this  woman  had  had  to  take  up 
and  bear  all  her  life.  Ay,  and  had  borne,  un- 
shrinkingly, to  the  end. 

It  was  this  day,  I  remember — for  I  seem  now 
to  remember  vividly  every  day  of  these  last 
weeks — that  a  strange  thing  happened,  which 
I  am  glad  now  did  happen,  and  in  time  for  me 
to  know  of  it,  because  it  proved  that,  though  she 
was,  as  she  said,  "a  hard  woman" — and  all  the 
honest  tenants  of  her  cottages  and  the  faithful 
servants  in  her  house  blessed  her  hardness,  for 
they  declared  it  saved  them  from  being  victims 
to  the  drunken,  the  idle,  and  the  dissolute — 
still.  Lady  de  Bougainville  was  not  pitiless, 
even  to  those  she  most  abhorred. 

The  afternoon  post  brought  her  a  letter,  the 
sight  of  which  made  her  start  and  turn  it  over 
and  over  again  incredulously.  I,  in  passing  it 
on  to  her,  had  just  noticed  that  it  was  a  hand 
unknown  to  me  —  a  large,  remarkable  hand, 
though  careless  and  enfeebled-looking,  like  an 
old  man's  writing.  As  she  opened  it  an  ex- 
pression came  across  her  face  that,  in  all  the 
years  I  had  known  her  now,  I  had  never  seen 
before.  Anger,  defiance,  contempt,  repugnance, 
all  were  there.  With  hands  violently  trem- 
bling, she  put  on  her  spectacles  and  went  to  the 
window  to  read  it  alone.  Then  she  came  back 
and  touched  Bridget  on  the  shoulder. 

"He  is  alive  yet;  I  thought  he  was  dead 
long  ago — did  not  you  ?  But  he  is  alive  yet. 
All  my  own  dead,  and  he  only  alive !  He  has 
written  to  Hpe." 

"Who,  my  lady?" 
•  "Mr.  Summerhayes." 

Bridget's  half-stupid  old  age  seemed  sudden- 
ly roused  into  fury.  She  snatched  the  letter 
from  the  table,  dashed  it  down,  and  trampled 
upon  it. 

"  Never  heed  him,  my  lady.  Don't  vex  your- 
self; he  isn't  worth  it.  How  diye  he  trouble 
you  ?    What  does  he  want  ?" 

"What  he  always  wanted — money,"  and  a 
slight  sneer  moved  her  lips.  "I  have  refused 
it  to  him,  you  know,  more  than  once ;  but  now 
he  is  dying,  he  writes,  dying  in  a  work-house. 
And  he  is  old,  just  my  age.  Who  would  have 
thought  that  we  two,  ho  and  I,  should  have 
lived  so  long?  Well,  he  begs  me,  for  the  love 
of  God,  and  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  not  to  let 
him  die  in  a  work-house.     Must  I,  Bridget?" 

But  Bridget,  frightened  at  her  mistress's 
looks,  made  no  answer. 

"  I  should  have  done  it,  a  few  years  ago ;  I 
know  I  should  ;  but  now — " 


174 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


She  hesitated ;  and  then,  turning  to  me,  said 
more  quietly,  "I  can  not  judge  the  thing  my- 
self. Winifred,  you  are  a  good  woman ;  you 
may.  This  man  has  been  the  curse  of  my  life. 
He  helped  to  ruin  my  husband — he  blasted  the 
happiness  of  my  daughter.  He  was  a  liar,  a 
profligate,  a  swindler  —  every  thing  I  most 
hated,  and  hate  still !  Why  he  has  been  left 
to  cumber  the  earth  these  eighty  years  —  a 
blessing  to  no  human  being,  and  a  torment  to 
whosoever  had  to  do  with  him — God  knows! 
I  have  thought  sometimes,  were  I  Providence, 
he  should  have  died  long  ago,  or  better,  never 
been  born." 

She  spoke  passionately — ay,  in  spite  of  her 
years  and  her  feebleness — and  her  faded  eyes 
glowed  with  all  the  indignation  of  youth  ;  only 
hers  was  no  personal  anger,  or  desire  of  venge- 
ance, but  that  righteous  wrath  against  evil  and 
the  doers  of  it,  which  we  believe  to  be  one  of  the 
attributes  of  Divinity  itself. 

"What  do  you  say,  Winifred?  Tell  me — 
for  I  dare  not  judge  the  matter  myself — shall  I 
leave  him  where  he  is,  to  die  the  death  of  the 
wicked,  or  have  pity  upon  him?  Justice  or 
mercy — which  shall  it  be  ?" 

I  could  not  tell ;  I  was  utterly  bewildered. 
Only  one  thing  came  into  my  mind  to  say,  and 
I  said  it :  "  Was  any  body  fond  of  him  ?  Was 
she  fond  of  him  ?" 

Oh,  the  look  of  her — dead  Adrienne's  mo- 
ther! I  shall  never  forget  it.  Agony — bit- 
terness-^  tender  remembrance  —  the  struggle 
to  be  just,  but  not  unmerciful ;  in  all  these  I 
could  trace  the  faint  reflection  of  what  that 
terrible  grief,  buried  so  long,  must  once  have 
been. 

At  length  she  said,  calmly,  "You  are  right ; 
I  see  it  now.  Yes,  I  will  own  the  truth ;  she 
was  fond  of  him.  And  that  decides  the  ques- 
tion." 

It  was  decided  in  a  very  few  minutes  more, 
for  she  evidently  could  not  brook  much  discus- 
sion of  the  matter.  We  arranged  that  m}"^  hus- 
band should  take  upon  himself  the  whole  trouble 
of  discovering  how  far  Mr.  Summerhayes's  letter 
was  true — "  He  may  not  be  telling  the  truth  even 
yet,"  Lady  de  Bougainville  said,  bitterly — and 
then  put  him  into  some  decent  lodging  where 
he  might  be  taken  care  of  till  he  died. 

"  Think,  Winifred,"  she  said,  reading  his  let- 
ter over  again  before  she  gave  it  to  me  to  give 
to  my  husband,  "  think  what  it  must  be  to  have 
reached  the  bridge  and  shrink  in  terror  from 
crossing  it;  to  have  come  to  the  end  of  life 
and  be  afraid  of  dying.  That  is  his  case.  Poor 
soul!  I  ought,  perhaps,  even  to  be  sorry  for 
liim  ;  and  I  am." 

She  said  no  more,  and  I  believe  this  was  the 
last  time — except  in  one  or  two  brief  business 
(rommunications  with  Mr.  Donelly  —  that  she 
ever  mentioned  the  name  of  Owen  Summer- 
hayes.  He  lived  a  pensioner  on  her  charity 
for  some  weeks ;  then  he  died  and  was  buried. 
That  is  all. 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon,  I  remember,  we 


spent  very  peacefully.  Her  agitation  seemed 
to  have  entirely  passed  away,  leaving  her  more 
gentle,  even  more  cheerful,  than  usual.  She 
talked  no  more  about  the  past,  but  wholly  of 
the  future  —  my  future,  and  that  of  the  little 
one  that  was  coming  to  me.  Many  wise  and 
good  words  she  said — as  from  a  mother  to  a 
mother — about  the  bringing  up,  for  God's  glo- 
ry and  its  parents'  blessing,  of  that  best  gift  of 
Heaven,  and  best  teacher  under  heaven,  a  lit- 
tle, white-souled,  innocent  child. 

Then  she  insisted  on  walking  with  me  to  the 
park  gates,  her  first  walk  for  many  days.  It 
had  been  an  inclement  winter,  and  for  weeks 
she  had  been  unable  to  cross  the  threshold, 
even  to  go  to  church.  But  to-day  was  so 
mild  and  bright  that  she  thought  she  would 
venture. 

"Only  don't  tell  Bridget;  for  I  can  walk 
back  quite  well^lone,  with  the  help  of  my 
capital  stick,"  wifliout  which  she  never  walked 
a  step  now.  At  first  she  had  disliked  using  it 
very  much;  but  now  she  called  it  "her  good 
friend."     . 

On  it  she  leaned,  gently  declining  my  arm, 
saying  I  was  the  invalid,  and  she  must  rather 
take  care  of  me ;  and  so  we  walked  together, 
slowly  and  contentedly,  down  the  elm  avenue. 
It  was  quite  bare  of  leaves,  but  beautiful  still; 
the  fine  tracery  of  the  branches  outlined  sharp 
against  the  sky — that  special  loveliness  of  win- 
ter trees  which  summer  never  shows.  She  no- 
ticed it :  noticed,  too,  with  her  quick  eye  for 
all  these  things,  the  first  beginning  of  spring — 
a  little  February  daisy  peeping  up  through  the 
grass.  And  then  she  stood  and  listened  to  a 
vociferous  robin  redbreast,  opening  his  mouth 
and  singing  aloud,  as  winter  robins  always 
seem  to  do,  from  the  elm-bough  overhead. 

"I  like  a  robin,"  she  said.  "He  is  such  a 
brave  bird." 

When  we  reached  the  park  gates  she  turned 
a  little  paler,  and  leaned  heavier  on  her  stick. 
I  was  afraid  she  was  very  tired,  and  said  so. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  always  tired  now."  Then, 
patting  my  hand  with  a  bright  smile — nay,  more 
than  bright,  actually  radiant — she  added,  "Nev- 
er mind ;  I  shall  be  all  right  soon." 

I  watched  her,  after  we  had  parted— just  as 
we  always  parted — with  a  tender  kiss,  and  a 
warning  to  "  take  great  care  of  myself:"  watch- 
ed her,  I  knew  not  why,  except  that  I  so  loved 
to  do  it,  untjil  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then 
went  satisfied  home ;  ignorant — oh,  how  igno- 
rant!— that  it  was  my  last  sight  of  her,  con- 
sciously, in  this  world. 

That  night  my  trouble  came  upon  me  una- 
wares. We  had  a  sore  struggle  for  our  lives, 
my  baby  and  I.  I  remember  nothing  about  ^ 
her  birtli  —  poor  little  lamb! — nor  for  weeks 
after  it.  My  head  went  wrong;  and  I  had  « 
rather  not  think  any  more  than  I  can  help, 
even  now,  of  that  dreadful  time. 

Daring  my  delirium,  among  all  the  horrible 
figures  that  filled  my  room,  I  recall  one — not 
horrible,  but  sweet — which  came  and  stood  at 


A  BRAVE  LADY. 


175 


DOWN  TUB  ELM  AVENUE. 


ray  bedside,  looking  at  me  with  the  saddest, 
tenderest  eyes.  I  took  it,  they  tell  me,  for 
the  Virgin  Mary,  of  whom  I  had  just  read 
some  Catholic  legend  that  the  Mother  of  Christ 
comes  herself  to  fetch  the  souls  of  all  women 
who  die  in  childbirth.  I  thought  she  had  come 
for  mine.  Only  she  was  not  the  young  Madon- 
na, fair  and  calm ;  she  was  Mary  grown  old,  in- 
ured to  many  sorrows,  heart-pierced  with  many 
swords,  yet  living  still;  Mary,  mother  of  the 
Lord,  human  and  full  of  frailty,  yet,  like  her 
Son,  "  made  perfect  through  suffering,"  as, 
please  God !  we  all  may  be  made.  And  when 
the  vision  departed,  they  tell  me,  I  missed  it, 
and  mourned  for  it,  and  raved  for  days  about 
"my  Virgin  Mary;'*  but  she  never  came  again. 

When  I  woke  up  from  my  illness  I  was  not 
at  home,  but  in  a  quiet  lodging  by  the  sea,  with 
kind  though  strange  faces  about  me,  and  my 
husband  constantly  at  my  side.  He  had  never 
left  me,  indeed,  but  I  did  not  know  him;  I 
hardly  did,  even  in  my  right  mind.  He  had 
grown  so  much  older,  and  some  of  his  pretty 
curly  locks  —  little  Josephine's  are  just  like 
them — had  turned  quite  gray. 

It  was  he  who  told  me,  cautiously  and  by 
slow  degrees,  how  ill  I  had  been,  and  how  I 
had  still,  by  the  mercy  of  God,  a  little  Jose- 
phine— a  healthy,  living  dairghter — waiting  for 
me  at.  home  at  Brierley. 

"But  who  has  taken  charge  of  her  all  this 
while^"  I  asked.  And  gradually,  as  the  in- 
terests and  needs  of  life  came  back  upon  me 
again,  I  became  excessively  anxious  and  un- 
happy, until  a  new  thought  struck  me :  "  Oh, 


her  godmother ;  she  would  send  for  baby  and 
take  care  of  her.  Then  she  would  be  quite 
safe,  I  know." 

My  husband  was  silent. 

"Has  her  godmother  seen  her?" 

"Once." 

"Only  once!" — a  little  disappointed,  till  I 
remembered  how  feeble  Lady  de  Bougainville 
was.  "She  has  not  got  my  little  lamb  with 
her,  then.  But  she  has  seen  her.  When  will 
she  see  her  again — when  ?" 

"  Some  day,"  Edward  said,  gently,  tighten- 
ing his  hold  of  my  hand.  "Some  day,  my 
wife.  But  her  godmother  does  not  want  her 
now.      She  has  her  own  children  again." 

And  so  I  learned,  as  tenderly  as  my  husband 
could  break  it  to  me,  that  Lady  de  Bougainville 
had,  according  to  the  word  she  used  of  her  own 
dear  ones,  "  gone  away ;"  and  that  when  I  went 
httme  to  my  little  Josephine  I  should  find  her 
place  vacant ;  that  on  this  side  the  grave  I 
should  see  the  face  I  loved  no  more. 

It  seemed  that  my  vision  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
was  reality ;  that,  hearing  of  my  extreme  dan- 
ger, Lady.de  Bougainville  had  risen  from  her 
bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night — a  wild,  stormy 
winter's  night — and  come  to  me ;  had  sat  by 
me,  tended  me,  and  with  her  indomitable  hope 
and  courage  kept  from  sinking  into  utter  de- 
spair my  poor  husband  and  my  father,  until  the 
trial  was  over,  and  mine  and  baby's  life  were 
safe.  Then  she  went  home,  troubling  no  one, 
complaining  to  no  one,  and  lay  down  on  her 
bed,  to  rise  up  no  more. 

She  was  ill  a  few  days  —  only  a  few;  and 


176 


A  BKAVE  LADY. 


every  one  thought  she  would  be  better  very 
soon,  until  she  was  actually  dying.  It  was 
just  about  midnight,  and  all  her  faithful  and 
attached  servants  hastily  gathered  round  her, 
but  too  late.  She  knew  no  one,  and  said  not 
a  single  word  to  any  one,  but  just  lay,  sleeping 
into  death,  as  it  were,  as  quiet  as  an  hour-old 
child.  Only  once,  a  few  minutes  before  her  de- 
parture, catching  suddenly  at  the  hand  which 
held  hers,  and  opening  her  eyes  wide,  she  fixed 
them  steadily  upon  the  empty  space  at  the  foot 
of  her  bed. 

"Look,  Bridget!"  she  said,  in  a  joyful  voice. 
*'LookI  the  children — the  children!" 

It  might  have  been — God  knows ! 
****** 

It  was  spring — full,  bright,  cheerful  May — 
when,  carrying  our  little  daughter  in  his  arras, 
my  husband  took  me  for  the  first  time  to  see 
the  new  grave  which  had  risen  up  beside  the 


others  in  Brierley  church-yard.  I  sat  down  by 
it ;  put  its  pretty  primroses,  already  so  numer- 
ous, into  my  baby's  hands,  and  talked  to  her 
unheeding  ears  about  her  godmother. 

But  all  the  while  I  had  no  feeling  whatever, 
and  I  never  have  had  since,  that  it  was  really 
herself  who  lay  sled|)ing  there :  she  who  to  the 
last  day  of  her  long  term  of  years  was  such  a 
brave  lady ;  so  full  of  energy,  activity,  courage, 
and  strength — whose  whole  thoughts  were  not 
for  herself  but  for  others — who  was  forever  busy 
doing  good.  She  was  doing  the  same  some- 
where else,  I  was  certain;  carrying  out  the 
same  heroic  life,  loving  with  the  same  warm 
heart,  rejoicing  with  a  keener  and  more  per- 
fect joy. 

And  so  I  think  of  her  still ;  and  I  will  think 
of  her,  and  I  will  not  grieve.  But  I  know  that 
on  earth  I  shall  never  again  behold  the  like  of 
my  dear  Lady  de  Bougainville. 


THE  END. 


Franklin   Square,  New  York,  March,  1870. 


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man thoroughness  and  patience  the  works  of  ancient 
and  modern  travelers  ;  he  gives,  in  brief  space,  the  re- 
sults of  their  explorations  — sometimes  he  tells  the 
story  of  their  labors.  He  has  done  his  work  well,  and 
has  given  us  a  whole  library  of  books  in  his  single 
volume— a  volume  which  will  have  for  the  young,  the 


interest  of  a  fairy  tale,  and  for  the  old  the  value  of  a 
scientific  treatise.  The  remarkable  scenery,  climate, 
fauna,  flora,  aborigines,  and  meteoric  nhenojnena  of 
our  colder  regions  are  all  fully  depicted.  The  Ameri- 
can translator  has  added  a  fine  series  of  one  hundred 
and  sixty-three  authentic  illustrations,  selected  from 
five  works  of  authoritative  value,  and  has  appended 
two  chapters — one  giving  the  latest  information  in  re- 
gard to  Alaska,  another  condensing  Captain  HaU's  re- 
cent experiences  among  theInnuits.—^m.Pre«b2/tcnan. 


Harper  &*  Brothers'  List  of  Ne7v  Books. 


Orton's  Andes  and  the  Amazon. 

The  Andes  and  the  Amazon ;  or,  Across  the  Continent  of  South  America. 
By  James  Orton,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Natural  History  in  Vassar  College, 
Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  and  Corresponding  Member  of  the  Academy  of  Natural 
Sciences,  Philadelphia.  With  a  New  Map  of  Equatorial  America  and  numer- 
ous Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 


Professor  Orton,  commissioned  by  the  Smithsonian 
Institute,  headed  an  expedition  across  the  continent 
of  South  America.  They  ascended  the  western  slope 
of  the  Andes  to  Quito;  thence  they  descended  the 
eastern  slope  on  foot,  until  they  reached  the  Napo, 
one  of  the  great  tributaries  of  the  Amazon.  Down 
this  river  they  paddled  in  a  canoe  for  five  hundred 

Comfort's  German  Course. 


miles  to  the  Amazon,  which  they  followed  for  two 
thousand  miles  to  its  mouth.  Of  the  immense  re- 
gion thus  traversed,  hitherto  almost  unknown — in  ev- 
ery respect,  whether  as  regards  the  interest  of  the 
subject  or  the  manner  of  treatment— Professor  Orton's 
book  is  a  valuable  accesdion  to  our  store  of  geograph- 
ical knowledge. 


A  German  Course,  adapted  for  Use  in  Colleges,  High-Schools,  and  Academies. 
By  Geo.  F.  Comfort,  A.M.,  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  and  Esthetics 
in  Alleghany  College,  Meadville,  Pa.     i2mo,  Cloth  or  Half  Leather,  %2  00. 


Frvm  Prof.  B.  W.  D wight,  M.D.,  Vice-President  of  the 
American  Philological  Association, 
"1  have  examined  with  care  the  'German  Course.' 
Having  taught  Grerman  for  twenty -five  years,  I  have 
used  every  one  of  the  manuals  of  instruction  in  that 
noble  language,  and  have  found  them  each  marked 


with  decided  faults— some  in  being  too  minute,  com- 
plicated, and  voluminous,  and  others  in  being  quite 
too  general  and  vague.  Prof.  Comfort's  Course  is  hap- 
pily free  from  these  faults,  and  is  scholarly,  practical, 
and  well  adapted  to  the  real  wants  of  those  who  wish 
to  learn  the  German  language  rapidly  and  well." 


Harrington's  Plautus. 

T.  Macci  Plauti  Captivi,  Trinummus,  et  Rudens.  With  English  Notes,  Crit- 
ical and  Explanatory.  By  C.  S.  Harrington,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Latin  in 
the  Wesleyan  University.     12 mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

Lord  Lytton's  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace. 

The  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace.  A  Metrical  Translation  into  English. 
With  Introduction  and  Commentaries.  By  Lord  Lytton.  With  Latin  Text 
from  the  Editions  of  Orelli,  Macleane,  and  Yonge.     i2mo.  Cloth,  $1  75. 


It  exhibits  throughout  a 
render  the  graceful  sonj 


lainstaking  endeavor  to 
of  the  Roman  lyrist  into 
rhymeless  measures  with  the  least  possible  sacrifice 
of  literal  accuracy;  and  we  think  in  reproducing  that 
curiosa  felicitas  verborum  for  which  Horace  is  so  justly 
famous,  he  has  frequently  been  more  successful  than 


any  previous  translators.  *  »  *  The  first  thing  which 
strikes  us  is  the  literalness  and  verbal  accuracy  of 
the  translations ;  and  we  notice  with  pleasure  how 
frequently  Lord  Lytton  has  successfully  imitated  that 
terseness  which  he  praises  so  much  in  the  Koman  poet. 
—Examiner  and  London  Review. 


with  delightfully-frightful  pictures,  tells  us  much  that 
is  new  and  interesting  to  us  in  the  natural  history  of 
the  unexplored  recesses  of  Africa,  and  abounds  with 
good  stories  of  the  natives  and  their  superstitions.— 
K  Y.  Evening  Post. 


Dtt  Chailltt's  Lost  in  the  Jungle. 

Lost  in  the  Jungle.  Narrated  for  Young  People.  By  Paul  B.  Du  Chaillu, 
Author  of"  Discoveries  in  Equatorial  Africa,"  "  Wild  Life  under  the  Equator," 
"  Journey  to  Ashango  Land,"  "  Stories  of  the  Gorilla  Coimtry,"  &c.  With 
numerous  Engravings.     12 mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

The  thousauds  of  young  people  who  have  read  the 
•'  Stories  of  the  Gorilla  Country,"  and  other  works 
especially  written  for  them  by  this  lively  author,  will 
rejoice  to  get  "  Lost  in  the  Jungle."  "  Lost  in  the  Jun- 
gle," which  the  publishers  have  profusely  illustrated 

Greenwood's  Wild  Sports  of  the  World. 

Wild  Sports  of  the  World  :  a  Book  of  Natural  History  and  Adventure.     By 
James  Greenwood,  Author  of"  The  Adventures  of  Reuben  Davidger,"  "  The 
"True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin,"  "  The  Seven  Curses  of  London,"  &c. 
With  147  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

best  possible  manner,  like  a  wise  philosopher,  a  thor- 
ough naturalist,  and  a  man  of  humanity.  The  youth- 
ful reader  can  not  fail  to  be  charmed  with  this  volume, 
so  skillfully  does  it  administer  to  that  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge of  Natural  History  which  is  so  strong  with  the 
younw ;  but  it  would  be  an  injustice  to  leave  the  im- 
pression that  it  is  a  mere  book  for  the  young.  It  is  so 
well  written  that  it  is  suited  to  all  ages  and  capacities, 
instructing  and  entertaining  readers  of  every  descrip- 
tion.— Boston  Traveller. 


We  can  heartily  commend  it  to  all  persons  who 
would  pursue  one  of  the  most  wholesome  and  delight- 
ful and  instructive  of  studies.  All  the  principal  ani- 
mals that  men  so  much  admire— at  a  distance— here  are 
treated  of  in  a  most  fascinating  way,  so  that  the  reader 
hangs  over  the  lively  pages  with  sensations  of  exqui- 
pite  pleasure,  and  with  the  greatest  difficulty  tears  him- 
self from  their  perusal  at  the  demand  of  the  stem  du- 
ties of  every-day  life.  •  *  •  Ofand  concerning  all  these 
wonderful  creatures  Mr.  Greenwood  discourses  in  the 


Harper  6-  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Winchell's  Sketches  of  Creation. 

Sketches  of  Creation  :  a  Popular  View  of  some  of  the  Grand  Conclusions  of 
the  Sciences  in  reference  to  the  History  of  Matter  and  of  Life.  Together 
with  a  Statement  of  the  Intimations  of  Science  respecting  the  Primordial 
Condition  and  the  Ultimate  Destiny  of  the  Earth  and  the  Solar  System.  By 
Alexander  Winchell,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Geology,  Zoology,  and  Botany 
in  the  University  of  Michigan,  and  Director  of  the  State  Geological  Survey. 
With  Illustrations.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 


"A  popular  exposition  of  the  leading  facts  and 
principles  of  the  natural  history  of  the  earth.  It  is 
unlike  any  work  in  the  English  language  in  the 
union  of  exact  scientific  statements  with  rhetorical  il- 
lustrations and  poetical  beauty.  The  whole  range  of 
geological  research  is  described  in  a  style  of  remark- 
able vividness  and  force,  retaining  only  so  much  of  the 
technical  nomenclature  as  is  essential  to  accuracy  of 
detail.  Though  expressly  intended  for  popular  read- 
ing, it  sacrifices  nothing  to  effect,  and  is  wholly  free 
from  the  superficiality  and  sentimentalism  which  are 
usually  found  in  the  attempts  to  reduce  the  conclu- 
sions of  science  to  the  level  of  common  minds.    It 


never  lets  itself  down  to  popular  comprehension,  but 
trusts  to  the  force  of  its  expositions  and  the  aptness 
of  its  illustrations  for  its  hold  on  the  mass  of  readers. 
Deeply  imbued  with  the  bold  and  critical  spirit  of 
modern  physical  science,  it  is  also  profoundly  relig- 
ious, though  without  cant  or  dogmatism.  While  it 
accepts  the  results  of  the  freest  investigation,  it  makes 
no  suggestions  adapted  to  shock  the  timid  conserva- 
tive in  matters  of  faith.  Few  works  combine  so  ex- 
tensive a  range  of  information  with  so  great  popular 
interest.  Many  of  its  disclosures,  though  founded  on 
rigid  scientific  deduction,  have  almost  the  effect  of 
eensatioual  fiction." 


Haydn's  Dictionary  of  Dates. 

Haydn's  Dictionary  of  Dates,  relating  to  all  Ages  and  Nations.  For  Uni- 
versal Reference.  Edited  by  Benjamin  Vincent,  Assistant  Secretary  and 
Keeper  of  the  Library  of  the  Royal  Institution  of  Great  Britain ;  and  Re- 
vised for  the  Use  of  American  Readers.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  00. 


One  of  the  books  that  must  be  had.  Not  merely  a 
convenient  book,  but  one  to  have  at  your  elbow  con- 
stantly. A  vast  time-saver,  crowding  into  a  single 
volume  the  tens  of  thousands  of  dates  which  one  is 
liable  to  require,  and  which,  without  such  a  book  as 
this,  one  must  hunt  through  hundreds  of  books,  at 
great  cost  of  time  and  patience,  often  to  end  by  not 


finding  them.  Almost  every  event  of  any  prominence 
is  here  dated ;  indeed,  it  is  much  as  if  Haydn  and  his 
successors  had  kept  the  world's  diary,  and,  by  a  happy 
chance,  in  our  time  had  selected  the  important  occur- 
rences and  arranged  them  in  alphabetical  order,  for 
our  special  benefit.— Corre«po7jdence  of  the  Cincinnati 
Chronicle. 


Abbott's  Old  Testament  Shadows. 

Old  Testament  Shadows  of  New  Testament  Truths.  By  Lyman  Abbott, 
Author  of  "  Jesus  of  Nazareth :  his  Life  and  Teachings,"  &c.  Illustrated 
from  Designs  by  Dore,  Delaroche,  Durham,  and  Parsons.  Elegantly  printed 
on  toned  paper.    8vo,  Cloth,  Beveled  Edges,  $3  00;  Gilt  Edges,  $3  50. 


There  is  a  vividness  in  its  descriptions  that  is  de- 
lightful. The  old  fields,  that  have  been  culled  by  so 
many  gleaners,  are  vitalized  into  reproductiveness. 
The  old  stories,  that  have  been  told  by  so  many  glow- 
ing pens,  are  clad  in  new  garbs,  and  meet  us  as  old 
friends  with  fresh  greetings.  *  *  *  Mr.  Abbott  writes 


Uphara's  Mental  Philosophy. 


con  amore.  He  throws  his  whole  soul  into  his  theme. 
He  has  developed  in  this  little  book  the  spirit  of  New 
Testament  instruction  from  the  histories  of  the  Old. 
The  waters  of  the  former  are  made  to  fiow  from  the 
riven  rocks  of  the  latter.— i\r.  Y,  Independent. 


Mental  Philosophy:  embracing  the  Three  Departments  of  the  Intellect, 
Sensibilities,  and  Will.  By  Thomas  C.  Upham,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Mental 
and  Moral  Philosophy  in  Bowdoin  College.  In  Two  Volumes.  Vol.  I. : 
Intellect,  Language;  Vol.  II. :  Sensibilities,  Will.  i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  75  per 
volume. 


Abbott's  History  of  Joseph  Bonaparte. 


The  History  of  Joseph  Bonaparte,  King  of  Naples  and  of  Italy.  By  John  S. 
C.  Abbott,  Author  of  "  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  "  The  French 
Revolution,"  &c.  i6mo.  Cloth,  $1  20.  Uniform  with  Abbotts'  Illustrated 
Histories^  for  Descriptive  List  of  which  see  Harper's  Catalogue. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  Opinion  of  AnnoTTB'  HrsTO- 
KiKS.— In  a  conversation  which  the  writer  had  with  the 
President  just  before  his  death,  Mr.  Lincoln  said :  "  I 
want  to  thank  you  and  your  brother  for  Abbotts'  series 
of  Histories.  I  have  not  education  enough  to  appreci- 
ate the  profound  works  of  voluminous  historians ;  and 


if  I  had,  I  have  not  time  to  read  them.  But  vour  series 
ofnistoriesp;ives  me,  in  brief  compass,  just  tliat  knowl- 
edge of  past  men  and  events  which  I  need.  I  have 
read  them  with  the  greatest  interest.  To  them  I  am 
indebted  for  about  all  the  historical  knowledge  I 
have." 


Harper  6-  Brothers*  List  of  New  Books. 


Life  and  Letters  of  Mary  Russell  Mltford. 

The  Life  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  Authoress  of  "  Our  Village,  &c."  Told 
by  Herself  in  Letters  to  Her  Friends.  With  Anecdotes  and  Sketches  of  her 
most  celebrated  Contemporaries.  Edited  by  Rev.  A.  G.  K.  L'Estrange.  2 
vols.,  i2mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

The  interest  of  these  volumes  is  twofold— personal 
and  literary.  Miss  Mitford's  life,  as  mournful  as  it 
was  beautiful,  is  more  deserving  of  remembrance  than 
any  of  her  writings.  It  exhibits  a  spirit  of  self-sacri- 
flce,  of  filial  devotion— and  shall  we  add,  of  filial  de- 
lusion ? — which  is  to  most  of  us  almost  past  under- 
standing. The  letters,  which  commence  with  the 
century  and  terminate  in  1S55,  abound  with  delightful 
literary  gossip  and  personal  reminiscences.  The  style 
is  admirable :  simple,  unaffected,  idiomatic.  The  bits 
of  rural  description  remind  us  of  "Our  Village,"  and 
the  remarks  on  men  and  books  are  generous  and  dis- 
criminating. Such  a  book  allures  us  on  from  page  to 
page  with  a  curious  fascination :  every  moment  the 
eye  is  attracted  by  a  familiar  name,  or  by  a  criticism 


which  compels  attention  by  some  pleasant  thought  or 
amusing  anecdote ;  and  it  may  be  safely  said  that 
there  is  not  one  tedious  chapter  in  the  volumes.— iow- 
djon  Spectator. 

Very  interesting  and  entertaining  volumes.  Noth- 
ing is  more  striking  in  these  letters  than  their  vivacity 
and  cheerfulness.  They  show  a  life  full  of  energy, 
sympathy,  kindness,  observation ;  a  mind  of  extraor- 
dinary versatility,  in  harmony  with  its  times,  and 
keeping  its  powers  and  its  interest  in  books  and  men 
vigorous  to  the  last.  These  letters  illustrate  art  and 
literature  of  the  day  for  fifty  years,  and  one  chief  in- 
terest of  them  is  the  portraits,  characters,  and  traits 
of  distinguished  people  who  came  in  their  author's 
vfa.y.— Saturday  Review. 


Abbott's  Romance  of  Spanish  History. 


The  Romance  of  Spanish  History.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott,  Author  of  "  The 
French  Revolution,"  "  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  &c.  With  Illus- 
trations.    i2mo.  Cloth,  $2  00. 


This  very  entertaining  and  instructive  volume  will 
increase  our  interest  in  a  country  which  is  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  the  theatre  of  great  events — of  an  earnest 


effort  to  establish,  in  place  of  the  old  despotism,  if  not 
a  republic,  at  least  a  constitutional  monarchy,  with  the 
widest  civil  and  religious  liberty.— Evangelist. 


WaddelFs  Greek  Grammar  for  Beginners. 

A  Greek  Grammar  for  Beginners.     By  William  Henry  Waddell,  Professor 
of  Ancient  Languages  in  the  University  of  Georgia.     i6mo.  Cloth,  $1  00. 

THE    NEW    NOVELS 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  New  York. 


THE  UNKIND  WORD,  and  Other  Stories.  By  the 
Author  of  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  &c.,  «&c. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


HIRELL.  By  the  Author  of  "Abel  Drake's  Wife," 
"Bound  to  the  Wheel,"  "Martin  Pole,"  &c.  8vo, 
Paper,  50  cents. 

K ITTY.  By  M.  Betham  Edwaeds,  Author  of  "Doc- 
tor Jacob,". "A  Winter  with  the  Swallows,"  &c. 
8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

A  BEGGAR  ON  HORSEBACK;  or,  A  County  Fam- 
ily. By  the  Author  of  "  One  of  the  Family,"  "  Car- 
lyon's  Year,"  "Found  Dead,"  &c.  8vo,  Paper,  35 
cents. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER.  By  Jttsttn  MoCae- 
THY,  Author  of  " The  Waterdale  ISeighbors."  Hlus- 
•  trated.    Svo,  Paper,  76  cents. 


ONLY  HERSELF.  By  Annie  Thomas,  Author  of 
"False  Colors,"  "Denis  Donne,"  "  Playing  for  High 
Stakes,"  &c.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


UNDER  FOOT.    By  Alton  Clyde,  Author  of  "  Mag- 
gie Lynne."    Illustrated.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


THE  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Au- 
thor of  "Chronicles  of  Carlingford,"  "Perpetual 
Curate,"  "Life  of  Edward  Irving,"  "Brownlows," 
"Agnes,"  &c.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 


WRECKED  IN  PORT.  By  Edmund  Yates,  Author 
of  "Kissing  the  Rod,"  "Land  at  Last,"  "Black 
Sheep,"  &c.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


BOUND  TO  JOHN  COMPANY;  or.  The  Adven- 
tures and  Misadventures  of  Robert  Ainsleigh.  Il- 
lustrated.   Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 


Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  either  of  the  above  hooks  hy  mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States,  on  receipt  of  tJie  price. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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